Who I Want to Be
by C.K.Maple
Summary: "You don't take a photograph, you make it." A crime-scene photographer's life working alongside Sherlock Holmes and John Watson turns dangerous when she's involved with covering up a murder, succumbing to the pleasures of living life out of other's shadows, and falling under the thumb of a notorious, suit-clad consulting criminal. James Moriarty/OC.
1. Addicted to a Certain Lifestye

**Author's Note:** Hello, hello! I'm back at fanfiction with my first Sherlock (BBC) story!

This is James Moriarty/OC, however James is going to take a bit to appear. The timeline is through to just past season 2 and adjusted as needed. I have developed my vision of James through 5+ years of roleplaying as him, so my portrayal will be based on that; if you'd like to learn more information about this, feel free to visit my Moriarty tumblr at **magpiesandmurder** in the dossier and #(  &. ❛ headcanon. ) sections. Feel free to ask me, too.

This fanfic is loosely inspired by the moriarty x reader piece, 'Always Take the Shot' by prettybabyhazy on tumblr – check it out~! There will be mentions of abuse, trauma, and the obvious violence, death, nudity, and other similar themes - as such, there is the M rating.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **Who I Want to Be**

"You don't take a photograph, you make it." A crime-scene photographer's life working alongside Sherlock Holmes and John Watson turns dangerous when she's involved with covering up a murder, succumbing to the pleasures of living life out of other's shadows, and falling under the thumb of a notorious, suit-clad consulting criminal. James Moriarty/OC.

* * *

 _Click… Click, click._ The sound of the single lens reflex Canon went off, capturing the scene. Mutilation – the girl's eyes gouged from their sockets. The sockets were dry, evidence that they were scooped out before her death. _Click._ Scalding to the buttocks and left leg. _Click._ Burns on her thigh—multiple stab wounds (probably by scissors or forks due to the jagged edges). Mutilation of her ears, nose—

"Cause of death, _clearly_ by drowning immediately prior to which she'd have been beaten about the head with the shower head." Sherlock Holmes was the Consulting Detective on the case, pointing out the shower head in the tub and the marks bruised on her throat from her murderer. "She was starved. The wounds were extensive—she was tortured. Weeks, probably, based on the state of her burns and disfigurement's tissue development."

She was the photographer, capturing the scene to insure the photos could be used in the case, and ultimately, in court. While Sherlock Holmes shined, and pulled along the case, she just took the photos. That was Violet White's job. Going to university for photography and law brought her here, working alongside Sherlock and John, famous figures in the face of the media, especially with John's blog and Sherlock's habit of theatrics and love for killers.

"How have you been, lately, Violet?" The voice of a softer, kinder sort approached the photographer from the right—John was squatting down with her as she took a photo of the crush injuries to both victim's hands.

"Uh… Good. –Yeah, I've been good." Violet continued to snap her photos, focusing on the correct exposure and sharp focus of each snap she took. John's brows furrowed, not convinced of her lame response; they'd known each other for quite a while now, the doctor could see through Violet's habit of minimizing her feelings. Keeping a low profile didn't work for John Watson, for he always took the moment to make sure she was doing all right.

"Violet. Come on, I know you. That's not going to pass with me." John let out a brief smile as the brown-haired girl looked over at him for the first time that foggy London morning. She looked exhausted now that he saw her face—dark circles hung around her eyes, and her lower lip was swollen from something hitting it recently. Probably best not to push it this time.

Violet smiled. "Really, I'm fine. No need to ask about me. …–How've you and Sherlock been? Sherlock told me how you two were focusing on some other case lately, something about some… consulting criminal, I believe?" She returned to documenting the scene, rising to her feet to take a full-body portion photo, adjusting as needed to be free from distortion. It was when she did photos like this that she appreciated Lestrade and Sherlock talking _away_ from the body, arguing over who did what, who was responsible for the murder, and why Lestrade was stupid over his " _obviously wrong"_ conclusions (she didn't have to ask for anything, and that made it easier).

"Yeah, we've uhm… we've been having a few hits at that. Not going the best direction. Lestrade insisted we come onto this case, though, with how gruesome it is. Gives the man a case to get off on instead of get frustrated on, y'know." A chuckle escaped from the soldier's lips though was quick to fade at the sight of the body in front of them. Horrible. Whoever drug the girl through that type of torture needed punishment.

"He'll probably finish it by the end of the day." Violet overheard the basics of the case. Kelly Bates, seventeen, and recently divorced from a James Smith. He had a history of violence and torture - she wouldn't be surprised if it was her partner that was the perpetrator. Either way, it would take Sherlock Holmes to prove this one to the courts, and it was her photography that would validate or invalidate it. She had to be perfect.

"That'll be all for today, White." The gruff salt and pepper detective approached her and the doctor beside her, Sherlock en suite. "Did you get enough details?"

"Yes. I made sure to get different views of everything to make sure everything would suffice. Are you sure I'm all right to leave?"

"Yes, I'm sure you did great, as usual. Go on, White." Lestrade gave her an approving smile, something Violet always looked for as a signal to pack up for the day. Violet gave a brief nod before shuffling out of the way from the main crime scene, taking off the lens from her camera's body and placing it into the empty lens console within the bag. She fit the body into the main portion of the bag, brought the flap back over to cover the camera equipment, and snapped all the buckles shut for security of her things. Before zipping up the front pocket with her small equipment tools and change, she retrieved a dollar from it, overhearing Lestrade in need of change for the cigarette machine.

"Any plans for this weekend? Mrs. Hudson wanted you to come over to have lunch with Sherlock and I, and was wondering if the weekend was okay." John followed after Violet, hands in his coat pockets after handing her the tripod after she put her bag over her shoulder. Of course, when he meant 'lunch with Sherlock and I,' he meant lunch with John and Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock sulked about who knew what—the man never ate, for God's sake.

 _He wouldn't approve._ Violet struggled for a response, her heart skipping a beat at the thought. Oh, how she wanted to go—but whether or not she'd be able to was another question. Would it be okay to meet up with her friends? "I'm not too sure, John… I'll let you know tomorrow, hm?"

His touch on her elbow and the serious look in his eyes stopped her.

"Are you really saying that because _he_ won't let you go? Really, Violet, it's okay to spend time with friends. You don't have to ask anyone else for permission to do what you want to do."

"I-.. I don't know. John…" Violet held her breath, then released it in a sigh. Bring light to the eyes. Smile.. "Fine. I'll be there. Tell Sherlock that, okay?"

It would take Sherlock Holmes to see through that practiced lie, one said over and over again. John gave a hopeful smile and stiff nod, allowing them to walk over to Sherlock and Lestrade for a quick parting. Violet held out the change she had to Lestrade with a smile, urging him to take it.

"Heard you needed change for the machine."

"Oh, White! Aren't you a lovely woman?" Lestrade let out a laugh, taking the change and giving her a rough pat on the shoulder, almost knocking her sideways from the weight increase. "You're the best." And off he was for a cigarette—old habits die hard, they say.

Sherlock was amused, it showed in his features that graced his face. "Well, off to the Tube, then, Violet? A shame, you could've helped me solved the case. Us intellectuals and John, we'd finish by the end of lunch."

"You give me too much credit, Sherlock.. I'm sure you'll do great with John here." Violet looked over at the doctor and gave a wink and a smile before moving to head toward the Tube, waving them off for the day.

Violet pulled her dark blue scarf tighter around her neck at the breeze that whipped around her, attempting to break down the scarf's walls to bring the cool air to her chest. The tightened scarf was refortified with the buttons she secured on her coat, closing the opening available for cold air to invade. A sigh escaped from her swollen and chapped lips—she was exhausted, and the early start to the day didn't quite help. She brought her camera bag over her head to lay diagonally on her chest to allow her one free hand, one she used to rub her eyes to rid of the tiredness that inhabited them.

Working all week was taking a toll on her, especially when she was on a strict schedule of taking photos of crime scenes, taking photos for her creative works, and getting back to her flat on time. If she were this exhausted, it made her wonder how Sherlock and John were feeling with their difficult case—apparently, they've been stuck on it for months, trying to figure out who some 'fan' was wanting with Sherlock and who exactly they were. It peaked Violet's curiosity, however, she didn't want to put her nose where it didn't belong. She'd only be a burden if she were involved, anyway.

It was her exhaustion that brought her to the coffee shop that sat on the corner by the tube station staircase, one that was filled with all the workers nearby in need of their caffeinated fix. All these people, filthy, cheap, and clearly not desperate enough for a promotion by the lack of fitting to their suits. The man in front of her in line had so much extra fabric in his shoulders and his slacks were practically engulfing the heels of his shoes. It made Violet wonder how they even got their job in the first place with how they looked. This guy, for example, probably only got his job by fucking his boss on a regular basis—it was obvious by the perfume and cufflinks he wore. She mentally rolled her eyes.

She ordered a simple black tea, no sugar, large—it would do the trick of getting her going for the day. As a photographer who wanted to always be available for the perfect shot, she sat closer to the window, having the habit of people watching while enjoying her drink. Her camera bag was open, her lens was attached to her Canon, and she was ready.

Though most days she didn't take anything.

Today was different.

The hum of Bee Gees's _Staying Alive_ came from the headphones of a sharp, suit-clad man at the bar chair closest to the door. Violet initially looked over at him because of the obnoxiously loud music, but quickly shifted attention to the way he looked. Clearly, he took the time to make himself look sharp, sleek, and stylish. His suit was a navy blue, accompanied by dark brown buttons and shined shoes. She couldn't see much at her angle, for he was at a profile view, but she could get enough to know that he was unlike anyone around here in the café. He was waiting for someone, it seemed. Who he was waiting for, she couldn't tell.

She exchanged her coffee for her camera, flicking the on switch and adjusting the settings for indoor lighting and manual focus. She brought the camera to her face and searched through the looking hole for the man again, drew her breath, and took the shot. _Click._ The shimmer of his slicked back hair and the shine from the sun hitting the corner of his Ray Bans appeared with the rest of the photo on the preview screen. With how she adored the shot, she took no time to take another. He was beautiful, but there seemed to be something more there. Putting her camera away again, she finished her tea, packed up her equipment onto her shoulder and left for the Tube.

On the way to her flat, the camera's drive filled with beautiful London scenery, the grey foggy weather, and the gloomy atmosphere the city gave off. A nice mix from the bloody murder from not too long ago. The Tube was filled with people going off to work, ready for the day's challenge, but not too crowded. Still, Violet wanted to vomit at the closeness of everyone to each other. It brought a shake to her core and nauseous feeling to her stomach every time she had to travel with a lot of people.

Living down in Highlands Village on Pennington Drive was nice—the distance to Oakwood underground wasn't too far, and the neighbors were nice. Her primary neighbor was the old woman, Darcy, who owned four cats and was practically on her death bed with how slow she was doing her daily activities. She lived on the first floor below Violet, and was quiet as a mouse—the complete opposite as Violet's flat.

The photographer fished out her keys from her coat pocket and brought them into her free hand in the proper position, opening the door after placing the tripod bag onto the stairs before entering the main stairwell. Each step up the communal staircase creaked and moaned, arching in pain with how old the wood was; the lack of maintenance was something she swore even Darcy could see.

Upon arriving to 203B, Violet was quiet and soft with slipping the key into the keyhole and turning the lock to unlock the entrance to the flat. She followed with slowly opening the door, placing her bags next to the walk way, and slipping off her shoes. Just maybe she'd survive another day.

The hooks for her coat were behind the main door, so she had the daily routine of closing it before slipping off her charcoal grey pea-coat onto the hook to signify the end of her outside day.

"Violet? Where the _fuck were you?"_ The antagonizing, louder voice came from the kitchen and followed into the sitting room, where Violet froze, facing the wall hooks. Her shoulders hunched forward as she dares take a look toward the flat's interior and the owner of the voice.

"I was out for work, Brandon. I told you this morning." Her voice was low, but held some ground with the pleading it hinted at— _Trust me, I did._

Brandon, the significantly taller and broader man stared at her, questioned her integrity, and gave her a scrutinizing glare. He couldn't remember her telling him where she was going, or that she was even leaving in the first place. She didn't leave a note, didn't ask him _permission,_ and sure as hell didn't tell him it was for work—it could've been to go fuck some other guy for all he knew.

"Violet, what did I tell you about not asking me before you go off like that?"

"Brandon, I—"

"No, _No,_ _ **No.**_ Don't 'Brandon' me. …Look, I can't have you leaving like that." He approached her, to which she instinctively retracted to, but since there was nowhere to go behind her, and it would only make it worse, she corrected her actions. He approached her and placed a hand on her chin to bring her gaze to his. "Don't do it again. You know I don't like getting angry at you."

"I promise. I-I'm sorry, I should've done better."

Just maybe she'd survive another day.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hope you enjoyed. Here's the Chapter 2 preview. See you all then!

 **Chapter 2** – _The Problems of Your Future_

"That's my _**life**_ _you're taking away,_ and I won't let you! Not anymore!"


	2. The Problems of Your Future

The one bedroom flat on Pennington Drive was small, petite, and meant for someone who preferably lived alone or was friendly with a significant other. It was not meant for a photographer with an admiration for antique camera equipment and pinning up every one of their favorite polaroids they've taken to the walls. While she wasn't allowed to spread her photo collection and cameras to the sitting room, Violet was satisfied with the work she's done with her bedroom (though she would like to change her flat to a photo studio one day, maybe). Two of the walls were plastered with her favorite shots, maps of the city of London, pins and strings connecting photos to specific locations, and notes to herself on how to improve her creative works. The third wall was orderly, clean, and simple, with only two posters hung up above the bed—one poster of the models of cameras through Nikon as they changed over time, the other of an oil painting done of the London skyline with the famous Wheel. Finally, her last wall was her closet paired with her shelf displaying her favorite cameras, cameras she's collected from a variety of antique shops and thrift shops, and vintage models she got from a friend of hers who had a clock maker and photographer for a great grandfather.

The floor was cluttered with papers, printed photos of her recent journeys, film strips, law books from college, and a few criminal case files she brought home from work to fix up and look over. While Brandon harped at her for the floor, she could have her life's work scatter to the floors while she was working or spending time by herself in the room—and that morning was one of those days. She rose with the early sun and did her routine as quiet as a mouse to not wake up Brandon, grabbed a cup of tea, and begun the day's work. The camera sitting on the floor's plush off-white carpet flickered an orange light every second, uploading the photos of the week onto the laptop that sat on the girl's thighs, and revealing the thumbnail for each photo in the file as they were transferred. Violet sipped her tea from her ceramic mug while watching each photo add to the file, and once complete, pulled the plug from her camera's USB port to then look over the digital results.

Just this morning had she finally upload the photos of 221B Baker Street that John wanted her to capture for his blog to give clients an idea of what the atmosphere would be like during their 'case' (she captured the environment weeks ago). He insisted that he pay her for the troubles, but she continually turned it down—he was a friend, after all, and she couldn't allow him to give her anything such as pay. While creative photography was her side job, she did not consider John to be a client—she considered him to be a friend that she was helping. That was it. Violet clicked through each photo to make sure none were out of focus or harsh in light, cropped a few, and brought them into her queue for printing along with the recent photos of the week that she planned to print out and add to her wall collection. She adored and admired the shots of London and its civilians she made that week, and wanted to display it with the rest of her accomplishments.

The printer in the corner of her room by the sole window _beeped_ on, signaling the beginning of the printing queue set to action, each photo glossed over nicely and in a square shape, ready to be added to her polaroid sleeves. Whilst waiting for her photos to come out, Violet opened her browser and logged into her work email; she had to send Lestrade her photos of the crime scene for Kelly Bates. If she didn't, he'd never see them, even though they were at the precinct in the case file, _and_ on the main work computer server.

 _Here are the photos for Case #101478683_. _Hope Sherlock solved it and got the guy. He took away her life and she had no chance to fight back._

 _Tell me if you need anything else._

 _White_

 _Shwoosh!_ Violet attached the photos and hit the send button, allowing the email into the service tunnels of the World-Wide Web and onto its journey to DI G. Lestrade's email box—it was a Saturday, and he probably wouldn't read it, but she did her job and part. Now it was his turn. She took a moment to reply to the rest of her work emails while she waited for the printer to finish her weekly collection: Anderson wanted her report on her photographic forensic view of a case from two weeks ago, Donovan wanted to go for a coffee (which she agreed to, even though she loathed the woman—she'd never say that to her face, though. Only causes conflict.), and Spencer from IT wanted her to change her password to be more than 14 characters to stabilize the password for at least 400 days. In short: _boring._

The humming of the printer, while filling up the empty void in the room, did not drown out the vibrating _Bzzzz~!_ From her mobile on the nightstand, one she responded to much faster than her work emails. A text from Sherlock. He never texted her this early unless it was a case. _But wasn't he busy with something else? Bzzzz! … Bzzzz!_ Three texts loaded onto her iPhone's main lock screen, all from Sherlock, bringing her heart rate up as a response. It made her anxious to get this many texts from the detective all at once, because it was usually never good. The pads of her fingers swiped the phone and pressed in the password before accessing the 'messages' app, revealing the texts from her curly-haired friend.

 _Triple homicide. Serial Killer. – SH_

 _Come immediately. – SH_

 _Baker Street. Lestrade's ordered us a cab from there. It'll be a ride to the scene. We'll go together. – SH_

Violet stared at the screen, reading over the texts once, twice, thrice before biting her bottom lip and taking the time to reply. Damn. Someone was going for the kills, that was for sure—probably angry at a list of people. Hopefully made a slip up by the third murder, allowing them to sniff onto their trail. It sounded exciting, and would bring her out of the house without Brandon thinking she was going off to cheat on him or whatever worse he had the habit of spatting at her. She wouldn't get in trouble, and not like last time, either. A small smile cracked at the corners of her lips, one that followed her back to the computer where she checked her print queue; the queue was due to be done in two minutes, enough time for her to get dressed and decent.

 _Give me an hour. –V_

Oakwood Underground to Baker Street was at least a 40-minute Tube ride, and with the time to walk to the station and to the detective's flat, she needed at least an hour to get herself to their door. She picked a simple navy blue over-pull over and complemented it with one of her favorite charcoal grey scarves—her jeans were black, so it all ran together. Neutrals kept her safe, kept her to herself, and she preferred that. Brandon preferred that. Violet adjusted her scarf in front of the mirror tucked away in her closet, pulled her sweater down to smooth the wrinkles, and closed the closet door to switch tasks to the photos by the printer. _Bzzz~!_

 _Hurry. – SH_

Violet rolled her eyes—he knew she couldn't make the Tube faster because of him! She grabbed her side bag with her belongings including a small camera for quick photos of inspiration, her phone, wallet, and tissues, and headed out to the sitting room. Her previous thought to put away her photos into her night stand for future pinning and cleaning up the floor flew out the door just as fast as she did. Brandon, who drunk the previous night to sleep onto the couch, was laying down watching the TV before he spotted Violet dressed and moving toward the front door.

"Where do you think you're goin', Vi?" Brandon's voice was slurred and muffled by the sleepiness that overtook him and the hangover that enveloped him from the night before, yet still managed to hold an accusation tone underneath it all. His brows furrowed as he watched her slip on and tie her shoes. Was she _ignoring_ him?

No, because after she tied her shoes, she walked up to the couch where he was and leaned down to give him a peck on the lips—it calmed him down, and would keep him that way (hopefully) for the rest of the day. "I have work. Triple murder. Probably won't be back for quite a while."

"Mhmm… Sure. Go at it. I'll expect you for dinner." Brandon shifted on the couch, returning his attention to the television. Violet, grateful for his lack of refusal, hurried to the door again and slipped on her pea coat before heading out the door and to the Tube station.

Oakwood Underground wasn't too far of a walk, seven-hundred meters, but with Sherlock hurrying her, she felt as if it were long enough to hinder her speed. She swiped her train ID on the entrance doors and hurried down the stairs to the landing platform. Onto the train, and off she was to 221B Baker Street.

Violet had to take the Piccadilly Line first to King's Cross, and by then, it was too late for her to turn back. She forgot her camera bag and tripod! Basically, all of her equipment was back at her flat. She audibly moaned as she stepped off the landing pad and into St. Pancras Station at King's Cross, and while heading to the Hammersmith and City Line, she buzzed a text to Sherlock… Make that five.

 _I forgot_ _my equipment. –V_

 _Wow.. I'm so sorry. –V_

 _I know, I know, I'm stupid. I never do it right. Just—I can still come. –V_

 _I have my point and shoot. Please forgive me, Sherlock. –V_

 _You're not mad, right? Ugh, Lestrade will have my head, I'm sure of it. –V_

Violet shook her head, scolding herself mentally. "Dammit, Violet. What were you thinking? This isn't some kind of outing! What will Lestrade say? – Maybe I'll lose my job… Maybe…" She paused, and felt the large plummet of fear and anxiety that met her core. "I'll become homeless, I won't get another job… What am I going to—"

 _You're fine. Just come. –SH_

* * *

The phone buzzed in her hand, the reply popping up from the bottom of the iMessage screen, revealing Sherlock's passive acceptance of the situation. How could he be so... okay with it? Her current camera on her wouldn't suffice for a crime scene. Creative works, sure, but not murder. She neglected to respond, and just got onto the line toward Baker Street Station. _… You can do this._

The rest of the ride was five minutes, the longer leg to King's Cross over, and Violet was quick to rush to the door with 221B plated on top. She lifted her hand and clenched it into a fist, ready to knock, but missed when the door fell in and opened, revealing Sherlock in a maroon silk robe with his white button up and slacks underneath.

"W-Wait—"

"Knew you'd fall for it. While you _are_ an intellectual at heart, you can't imagine the idea of saying no to anyone when they're in need. Especially when it comes to work." A smirk found its way onto Sherlock's face as he opened the door wider and allowed the photographer to walk in, still in a daze at what had actually transpired.

A moment of silence passed as she thought to herself. Hmph. Her gaze shifted to her left where Sherlock stood, still amused at the fact that he'd tricked her once more.

"You lied to me, you—But, why…?" She paused, a glint of realization coming to her eyes. Ah, it was _Saturday._ John expected her to come to lunch. " _Oh._ "

Sherlock merely patted her on the head before both climbed the wooden stairs up to the famous detective and blogger's flat. Mrs. Hudson and John were in the kitchen, test tubes and beakers in hand—leave it to Sherlock Holmes to keep the table a mess, covered with his inventory of lab equipment, and for the others to clean it for him. Violet stepped into the kitchen, hand loosely holding the strap of her side bag, and gave a smile as she greeted herself.

"Oh, hello dear! So glad you could come. A little socializing will do you good." Mrs. Hudson was all cheers and smiles, taking the moment to set Sherlock's tubes down to give Violet a hug. She wasn't accustomed to such soft and welcoming arms—a hug from Mrs. Hudson already made her day, for it made her feel important to at least one person in the world. Before letting go, Mrs. Hudson dusted off Violet's shoulders, "I've made dessert, too, so there's a little extra after lunch."

"Mrs. Hudson, you're sweet, how can I ever repay you—"

"Don't worry about any of it, dearie! Just enjoy your stay." She gave her a nod and returned to helping John clean up. While they were finishing the job, Violet went around to the sitting room to hang up her pea-coat on the coat rack and found her way to the couch by the coffee table. It was still early for lunch—not terribly, but enough that she could relax first hand. Well, as much as she could. Sherlock lied to her for her to get out the house, and while she was grateful for that, the incessant fear she held in her heart that Brandon would find out and hurt her or her friends overruled that gratefulness. She was forever under his clutches, and she couldn't do a thing about it.

She looked over at the detective who sat in his chair, his hands pressed together in prayer, and his stare returning hers.

"How long did it take you to finish that case?"

"Five hours. Wasn't awfully hard. The later stab wounds in the gouged eye sockets and the pattern of the whips on her back made it easy to find the man. Joseph Monaghan, born in 1948 and known sadist, who had an affair with her during her partnership with James Smith. Case. Closed." Sherlock sped through his reply, clearly over it, and bored with the outcome—while it was a gruesome murder and interesting at first, the conclusion was quite simple for him, and was no longer worth his time. Violet wasn't surprised—as she said, 'by the end of the day'.

John helped Mrs. Hudson fix up lunch in the kitchen, preparing salad and bread dough for the house lady and making sure Sherlock wouldn't enter the kitchen without permission. It was common for him to sabotage the food for an experiment, and while John didn't normally mind, he was in no mood for Sherlock to do it to Violet today. Sherlock and Violet talked cases with one another to pass the time. It was about a few minutes before lunch that Sherlock tossed a walking stick to Violet with an expectant look.

"What do you want, to go on a hike?"

"No, I want you to shine a bit."

"S-Sherlock, I'm not a… seriously, I don't know if we should—" She couldn't really make up for words, because of the stare Sherlock gave her. He wasn't giving into her usual attempts to stay in the shadows, unnoticed. He wanted to challenge her—make her stronger. It was her that normally didn't want to cooperate though.

He continued to stare at her, until finally the anxiety of being stared at overwhelmed her to which she directed her attention to the walking stick. It was a smooth walking stick, carved to the detail of the user's hand. A doctor's hand by the looks of the grip…

"The walking stick is young, taken care of… though it does have blunt marks, suggesting something hits it often. The owner is young—not too young, probably thirty, since younger people don't usually have walking sticks. Probably absent-minded because while he tries to take good care of the stick, allows the blunts to accumulate. Probably a dog, now that I'm seeing bite marks toward the middle. Not too small, but not as large as a mastiff." Violet paused, handing the stick toward Sherlock.

"Go on." Sherlock was smiling wide, amused and pleased.

Violet stared at him, struggling to retort with a refusal, and continued. "Uh… well.. the dog has the habit of carrying the stick often, meaning the owner is unambitious to carry it and probably the rest of their life. The dog's tight grasp on the stick is plainly visible. Probably too broad for a terrier or toy dog. By the looks of it and the traits of the owner, a spaniel I'd say."

" _Gooood. Very good._ See, you can do things, you're just too afraid to try." Sherlock took the stick from her hands, to which she merely looked at the ground in embarrassment—not of her deductions, but of the fact that she was weak and easy to be controlled. It was pathetic.

"Guys, it's time to eat. 'Come on, then." John stepped into the sitting room, looking at the atmosphere between Sherlock and Violet dissipate as Violet turned and walked toward the kitchen. "That means you, too, Sherlock. Just because you think you're special and skip meals doesn't mean you can stay and sit in your chair all day. Violet's here, she doesn't come often."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Eating would only slow him down, and thank _god_ John realized he wouldn't succumb himself to such a burden. Sitting there was bad enough, and if eating were involved, he'd flat out have had a tantrum. Mrs. Hudson served John and Violet: salad with sandwiches on homemade bread with salami, ham, swiss, lettuce, and tomato—simple, but divine. Dessert would make for the star of the show, that was for sure. She made her way down to her own flat for the dessert that would come later, leaving Sherlock, John, and Violet all sitting at the kitchen table.

"Nice to see the table clean for once." John eyed Sherlock with a pleased smile. He was enjoying the moment while it lasted, for the table would shortly become another explosion site from one of his experiments when he had the chance to strike. "And wonderful to have a meal without the stress of being blown to bits."

"Wait," Violet set her sandwich down, cocking an eyebrow at the two men in front of her view. "Blown to bits? What in God's sake happened?"

"Moriarty." The cool, quick reply escaped Sherlock's mouth before John could even draw a breath. Violet reverted her gaze to him. His eyes were stolid, though she felt another emotion emanating from him—was it fear or intimidation, she couldn't quite work out. Sherlock was a hard man to figure out, especially now. His gaze met hers and it told her more than she already knew. Yes. He was afraid. Afraid of the unknown that he spoke of in one word. She rose an eyebrow as sign to continue.

"Consulting Criminal. An organizer of all that is evil and all that is undetected in London and world-wide. He's a brain of the first order, power of a king, and the threads that make up his web under his thumb. He'll fix any problem you have, make it to get rid of your nasty lover or to disappear to South America. He's your man." Sherlock tapped the wood of the table in the beat of a Mozart tune, one she vaguely recognized, as if trying to ground himself to reality—this man shook him. This… _Consulting Criminal._ Brilliant.

"So, what did he do?"

"He's more fixed on the fact that he has a new playmate he got last night." John shook his head, clearly distressed about the situation, but compartmentalized himself. It was the only way the soldier knew how to cope—keeping himself under control or distraction through other peoples' murder. "This posh arsehole in Westwood with his Bee Gees fetish and all that sop decided to kidnap me as bait for Sherlock, where he decided to try and blow us up with _bombs_ strapped to my damn chest. A lunatic, that's what he is!" John took an aggressive bite from his sandwich, clearly not in the mood to continue on about it. If she were to question further, he'd just about explode and probably go on a rampage—sure, he was more emotional and easier to handle than a tar-addicted junkie, but difficult none the less.

… Did he say _Bee Gees fetish?_ Odd. Clearly a sharp criminal, if anything positive were to come out of it. Curiosity lingered within the depths of her mind, cautious to wander too far into the mystery, yet still there. Existing. Instead of her existing curiosity coming to the surface, her fear decided to come up front instead. She could've lost them—she could have lost her friends, leaving her alone for the rest of her life. What would she do without them? Without her John Watson, her gossip friend, or Sherlock Holmes, her fellow smartie.

"I'm glad you two are still kicking. I don't know what I—or for that matter, _anyone—_ would do without you two. I'd lose my mind with just Brandon around in my life." Violet gave a low chuckle, looking down at her unfinished salad, lingering to the thought. To have no other friends and be alone with him every day. She'd go bat shit crazy.

"Oh yeah. How's you and Brandon? You look a little better today." John never pressured her to get out of her situation anymore—at first, as a concerned friend, he did, but with how much emotional pressure and a toll it put on Violet and her work, he decided to back down for the time being. More casual questions now than ever.

"Uh.. y-yeah. Good. We're good. He's good – he got a promotion at the construction company this week, so he's been excited about that." _Fear_ drove her answer, as always. Downplaying her situation was a habit she'd dug herself into, and one Sherlock could not _stand._

" _Liar."_

" **Sherlock."** John gave him a solid stare, one that spoke in all languages on how he should shut the hell up. He was not going to have him give her a hard time, not when she had used already so much courage to stay in the first place after figuring out about the lack of work.

" _What?_ She's clearly in her own fantasy still—no, they're not good. They've _never_ _ **been**_ good. For God's Sake, John! He's holding over her like he would a slave, you can tell by the fading bruises she always has on her arms and the swollen face she's had all week! It's just now fading away, and the fear driving her is only one of the signs that it's just going to keep cycling and cycling. She's too weak to—"

" _SHERLOCK!"_ John's voice boomed through the flat, startling Violet to a jump and bringing Sherlock into an instant hush. He'd stepped out of line and John was bringing him back, making sure he'd leave her alone. Violet was quiet, staring between the two. No, he was right—she was under his reign and she had no courage to step up for herself. She wanted to leave, but… well, wasn't quite sure how and didn't want to bring anyone else on it.

"It's okay," she hushed, giving a gentle smile to John who took a deep breath and exhaled in a sigh to release his stress. Okay. _Restart_. Sherlock gave an odd look before rising from his seat and trailing to the sitting room, pajama robe billowing after; social cues weren't his forte, but the way John yelled at him told him enough.

"Sorry… anyway, how've you been?" John's voice was quieter with the precaution that Sherlock not have another outburst about the subject at hand. "How's your creative works? Any shots this week?"

"Work and sleep, mostly. Haven't been allowed out the house recently. It's exhausting, but I manage." Violet cracked a smile, grabbing John's hand and clenching it gently to reassure him that she was, in fact, okay with what had just transpired. "I actually got quite a few shots this week, yeah—mostly of London and the foggy mornings. The fog is nice and calming for me. –Oh! I printed out those pictures for your blog, but I forgot them back at my flat. I'll bring them to you next time you're out with Sherlock on a case, yeah?"

"That'll be great, thanks, Violet. Mind showing me your shots of this week, too?"

"Not to worry, I'll add it to your photo batch. Maybe Sherlock will even let you hang some up." A chuckle escaped from between her lips at the idea of Sherlock Holmes having anything other than odd specie and scientific photos anywhere on his walls. The Skull painting was an exception, because, well, the bull on the other wall with the headphones was _clearly_ important to his scientific research.

"Speaking of all of that… Gotta' update the blog." John patted Violet's hand and rose from his seat, migrating to the other table to open his laptop and enter his blog. _Life Goes On…_

She felt at home. Comfortable and at peace. It was here that she could relax and not feel the anxiety of whether or not she would end up on the bathroom floor in her own blood. It brought her to John's chair where she watched the two boys live their life a bit after lunch. Sherlock was standing by the other side of the table, lifting a newspaper and reading the main headlines while John was writing up his blog, mumbling aloud. _I'm going to tell you about a couple of the smaller cases we've been involved in…_

Her eyes drooped while her body relaxed into the chair, feeling the safe and warm envelopment of the fabric and of the dust and smoke that lingered in the flat's atmosphere. It was just like a dream…

* * *

…

…

 _Sherlock, no! Don't, those are_ _ **human fingers. Human fingers!**_

Violet's eyes squinted before opening, the sleepiness glossed over them and unfocused vision bringing her to the flat of 221B and the sun delivering in a darker orange to the flat's sitting room. She sat up on the couch from her slouched position, lifted her arms above her head, and let out a comfortable moan as she stretched her arms and legs into awake mode. "John…? What's Sherlock doing?" The scarf muffled her voice having bunched up above her mouth in her sleep.

John pulling a bag of human fingers out of Sherlock's grasp met her eyes once she hobbled into the kitchen, hand pushing through her hair to make it more presentable. Her gaze moved to the kitchen stove clock, to which her eyes widened. She was going to be late. _Fuck._ It was closing in on dinner, and she slept too long for comfort.

"Shit. _Shit. –Christ._ Guys, I _have_ to go." Violet rushed back to John's chair, snatched her bag, and bee-lined to the coat hanger for her pea-coat. Her eyes were glossed with tears that threatened to fall, keeping them at the brim by staring upwards. Death rode toward her door fast on its horse and she was not ready for guests.

"Violet, is everything oka—"

"See ya'!" Violet buzzed out of the door and jumped toward the stairs, skipping one as she descended and fixing her coat collar while on the way down. She'd have to skip dessert today, because if she were to linger any longer, there would be no dessert trying in the future.

Body contact came to the wall next to the last couple of stairs of the flat, saving her from a fall to the floor and saving her time to get to Baker Street station. The two boys' voices calling out to her echoed through her ears and was quick to fade as she burst out the door of 221B and down to the Tube Station.

"Uh—Sorry!" Violet pushed past an older lady with her groceries from the nearby bakery, and continued to rush on, her hand covering her side bag and her scarf covering her mouth to warm the air of the London breeze that hit her. Vy's Nails whirled by her vision before she turned the corner and sped up down Allsop Place. She glanced up at the nearest clock on the streets to look at the minute hands—46. She had two minutes to make it through the station to the landing pad.

With one hand, the girl reached into her small side bag for her train ID pass which she quickly swiped at the station entrance. _**X.**_ The door didn't open. She swiped again, slower, receiving the _ding_ to GO. GO, GO, GO.

Violet rushed—the blood pumping through her veins, the adrenaline aiding her every stride. The halls toward the station were filled with crowds of children on their way from school, adults with their brief cases after a day of work, and… She couldn't think of that now. Couldn't think of the masses of people enveloping her every side, pushing her like a ping pong ball, and feeling her up on accident as they rushed in the opposite direction. She _had_ to make it home on time. She couldn't go another day of fighting. She wanted Brandon on a good day—and they were doing so well this week! Sure, she almost brought him to a fume when she didn't tell him about work a few days ago, but… but they were on a streak. He was loving her.

Finally, she was at the platform for the Baker Street station. At the last second, with the doors closing in on her, she pushed her way through them and made it onto the now moving train with a sigh of relief. Her breathing was labored, harsh, and violent, filling the void of silent travelers who all gave her an odd look—was she okay? No, she wasn't. She was, but she wasn't. Violet gave a smile to the nearest man standing by the door, an embarrassed wave, and went to sit at the only seat on the side of the cart left. She nodded to the man she sat next to, taking no mind of him, until he spoke.

"In a hurry?" His voice was deep, accented, and dangerous—it also reminded her of a purr of the sorts. Violet looked to her left and gave a brief smile, taking the fellow passenger's image in. He had a scar on his face, stubble littered over his jaw, and a short military-like cut. The leather jacket he wore with his shades hanging from his t-shirt underneath only added to the brute danger the man seemed to emit.

"Y-Yeah… I, uhm… I'm a little l-late to something." She gasped for breath, still feeling the aching pain in her chest from the running she did from Sherlock's flat. Damn.

"… Can I take your photo?" Violet couldn't help but blurt the question out without thought, which brought her face to steam a dark red. _Why now?_ She couldn't just ask a stranger like that! What would he think? That she's some kind of creep? And if she saw him again, he'd only remember her by her creepy question of wanting to get a photo of him in the Tube. Damn— "I-I'm a photographer. Practicing portraits." _And she couldn't stop her big mouth._

The man stared at her, suspicious of her motives, but after analyzing her (far too much for comfort), he gave a brief smile and a nod. She could've sworn he was making sure she wasn't going to try and kill him rather than making sure she wasn't some creep. Either way, she couldn't help but feel a tad grateful for her sudden courage of asking him for a photo. She reached into her small side-bag for her quick point and shoot camera that she always kept on her for moments like these. She turned it on and adjusted the flash and lighting settings for the horrible lighting the Tube had, and aimed the camera at the man after scooting to the edge of her seat. She brought the camera to a portrait view, brought the camera to her eye, and bringing him into her cross hairs before taking the shot. _Click._ The man didn't smile, and faced her at a 3/4ths angle—he was dangerous, cold, and unemotional. It reminded her of a tiger. A tiger she stared at that would be her death were she to do any sudden moves. Another beautiful shot—however, not a beautiful as her shot of the man back at the café earlier that week.

The train came to a stop at the next station.

"Thank you so much, you're ver—" Violet looked up from the photo preview on her camera and noticed she was talking to herself. Strange. She could've sworn he was there—she had the photo. He was fast—fast like the tiger she imagined him to be. Well, at least she had the photo for the memory. Violet smiled to herself. … How could she smile? She was going to be late! The anxiety came over her walls, crashing like waves to her core, bringing her pulse back up from the moment of peace she had. The train sped through the corridors, lights zipping by, stations without landing pads on the correct side admiring the passerby. Violet got up from her seat and waited by the door, her hand grasping the steel pole near her left as if her life depending on the pole alone. _Come on, come on._

She didn't even want to look at the time. It would only bring further panic on her than was already rattling her bones.

… _We are now arriving to Oakwood Station. Please Mind the Gap and wait for the train to come to a complete stop. Thank you. We are now arriving…_

 _Tap, tap, tap._ Violet's leg was shaking, her foot tapping on the rubber floors, waiting for the train to come to a stop at the landing pad. Not many usually got off at her station, which would aid in her seven-hundred-meter rush to her flat. _Come on, come on!_ She should've set an alarm, told John she couldn't stay long, something! Hell, maybe she shouldn't have even gone. Why did she have to go ahead and lie? Why was she such a mess? Maybe she deserved what was coming. Deserved the yelling, the scolding, the pushing, all of it.

She swayed a bit as the train slammed to a final stop, but did not allow that to deteriorate her running start she took as soon as her foot met with the landing pad. She could've sworn she heard one of the workers tell her to slow down, and while she would've normally apologize profusely and slow to a walk all while scolding herself for the following days to come, all of that was out of the window with the fear running through her veins of what Brandon could give her instead.

 _Bam! "Shit!"_ Violet hissed aloud as her knee met one of the stairs following up to the main streets of London. Her knee throbbed and was probably scraped under her jeans, but after taking a second to recuperate, she was back to rushing up and down the street to get to Pennington Drive. Passersby watched the girl limp through the street onto the sidewalk along the wrong side of the road, not paying attention to anything but the scene in front of her—forget it all, she needed to minimize any time to get back home.

The flat's building started to come into view, with the old neighbor, Darcy hobbling just in front of it with a large box of groceries and a couple plastic bags sitting on the ground, waiting for the next round of walking to be picked up. Violet aimed on giving her a brief hello before shooting up the stairs to the best of her ability, but the old lady, just about on her death bed, reached out to the younger girl at the sight of her.

"Ah, Violet… Dearie, would you be able to help me?" She croaked, hardly able to speak with how much energy was already dedicated to carrying the box in her arms. Violet was known to avoid conflict with others and give in to others' needs instead of her own, especially to those like Darcy. Violet, gasping for breath for the second time that day, nodded quickly and took the box from the lady and headed to her first floor flat just by the common staircase inside. Inside, Violet waited for Darcy to open and unlock her flat before walking in and placing it onto the kitchen counter. She was quick to rush by the old woman to go back outside and grab the last couple of bags, bringing them to the counter in the kitchen to sit by the box.

"Anything else, Darcy?"

"That'll be it, dear... Thank you so much—I'll be sure to bring up some desserts later for you!"

"Th-Th-Thanks!" Violet left, closing the door and with the pain from her knee coming back into focus, climbed up the creaky old stairs to her flat. The light above the entrance to 203B was dead, making it hard for her to see the door's lock. Feeling for it with one hand and pulling keys out with the other, Violet fumbled to unlock the door, ignoring any of her usual habits. She opened the door and was greeted with the smell of _smoke._ The smoke alarms were torn out from the ceiling, and she could hardly see. _Shit. What happened?_

Violet squinted her eyes, closing the door behind her, not wanting to cause a panic outside—the windows in the kitchen were closed and the one in her room appeared to be opened by the flow of the smoke travel. Fear crossed her body, crawling from the pits of her stomach—this was more than just anxiety of making Brandon angry, this was fear of death itself. Her feet crunched on something on the floor, bringing her attention to it—a dozen of her photos. _Ripped. All of them. Her life's work._ Tears glossed her eyes from the smoke and the overwhelming emotion bubbling up from the pits.

What had she done?

Violet led herself through the small flat to her room where she found the source of the flames—the flames licked over a dozen camera's, fueled by the torn up printed photos and snapped flash drives.

"B-Brandon?" Violet dared call out to the man who was sitting in front of the flames, watching it with a dangerous glare. He slowly looked behind him, straight into Violet's eyes, the scorching flames flickering in his eyes.

"You're late. You lied to me, and on top of that, you're fucking _late."_ Brandon's voice was livid. He spat venom, but did not move up and toward her. Instead, he leaned over and grabbed her computer and brought it against his knee to bend and crack, adding it to the flames—sparks erupted in the room, their cracks echoing against the walls. He was _burning everything._

 _Her life's work. Her photos._ _ **Everything.**_ _Backups on her drives. Her flash drives. Her computer. Everything._

"What are you doing!? Stop it! Stop it, that's everything to me! That's my life!" Violet rushed over to Brandon, tears escaping her eyes and sobs emitting from her voice. All of it was disappearing, and she was helpless to stop it. In a moment, Violet contacted who was supposed to be her lover, her boyfriend, and begun to pull him away from the flames. "S-S-Stop it!"

"Get off, you whore!" He lifted his arm to grab her by the shoulder, pushing her off and away. The force was strong and hard, pushing her up against the wall—a dizziness came onto her. She was hit on the head. Hard. Violet, on her knees, sobbed and screamed to herself before looking back up from her vulnerable position against the wall. It was all going away. She was too weak. Helpless. Afraid. She shouldn't have gone out.

Violet craved to scream again, cry out, but was stopped at the sight of the photo he held in his hands. It was _that photo._ The photo she adored. It was the man from the coffee shop—the only photo she took of him, waiting for someone, listening to music that kept him staying alive. The shine in his shades, the glint in his hair—and Brandon held it, taking note of the way she looked at the photo.

"Huh, should've guessed. Bet you had him fuck you real hard to get a photo like this, huh? What's 'is name? Oh, you probably didn't even bother to ask, as long as you got to fuck 'im!" _Riiiippp._ Brandon ripped the photo in half and brought it to the side—he'd make her suffer and make her put the photo in the flames herself. Before that, though… Brandon reached for the nicest camera Violet owned—her prized Fuji X-T2, decked with the nicest specs and lens—and threw it into the flames, bringing it to an eruption of sparks.

 _Everything. She was losing everything._

Violet shook violently, the tears blurring her vision—fear fueled into anger, an anger a wounded predator would hold for defense against an attacker. Defend oneself and that meant at all costs. She fumed at the sight of her life burning away—she couldn't stand it. She couldn't allow it. Out of all the smoke, of all the flames, and of all the emotion rushing over her walls at waves at a time, she was able to find the only thing intact. Her ol Speed Graphics camera, a large heavy camera that could probably be a serious paper weight, if anything. She crawled toward the camera and brought it into both hands and was shaky to rise to her feet. She'd had enough. She was over it. _Fucking over it. This was her_ _ **life**_ _he was destroying._

The smoke stung her eyes, and her lungs burned at the amount of soot coming into them, but she continued to walk over to Brandon, who was faced away from her, observing the devastation the flames were building.

… Violet took hint on every detail they could—every muscle moving on him, every nerve pulsing, and every feature needed to be taking note of. Her fingers clenched and unclenched once, twice, around the camera before she allowed her rage to release into all the strength she could muster to swing at him.

"That's my _**life**_ _you're taking away,_ and I won't let you! Not anymore!" Violet screamed through her aching throat, rasping all she could manage.

 _Bam! Bam! Bam!_ She hit him over the head with the camera, over and over and over, hitting him with as much force as her muscles would exert. Brandon collapsed forward in front of the fire, not fighting back, and while she would've normally stopped, her emotions took over the ride. It felt too good to stop. She continued to hit him repeatedly, the strength pumping through her muscles and blood splatting onto her hands and camera. No more crying. No more being weak. She hit him, and hit him, _and hit him. Over and over._

Tears and sobs replaced angered screams as each slam against his head progressed, and finally, her swings ceased. Her sobs turned to those of a child crying over the lack of their mother. She was overwhelmed, so much so that she was just now getting a glimpse of the bad world she created for herself. The lump form underneath her tainted with soot, ash, and blood, stared back at her with no mercy, forcing her to observe her dirty work.

The back of what was Brandon's head was now completely crushed in fleshy _goop._ Crushed skull and human flesh covered in hair and soaked in blood replaced the hard-headed ring-master that once was.

What had she _done?_

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hope everyone enjoyed, and please review! The next chapter should be up later this week, but reviews help with motivation. See you then.

 **Chapter 3** \- _The Stranger_

"Happy endings don't even exist in fairy tales—my dear. Let alone in the real world. But then again…" He glanced up in false wonder, a hand brushing his chin. "Doesn't life imitate art?"


	3. The Stranger

**Author's Note:** We're in Chapter 3 and I'm excited for this. Thanks to those who are putting _Who I Want to Be_ on alert, reviewing, and favoriting it. I appreciate it. ~

* * *

It was dark.

Dark red that stained the blond hairs of what used to be her dictator, her ruler, signifying the end of the regime and the start of a new free world. A free world where Violet White felt she didn't belong, or didn't know _how_ to belong. Tears rolled down her face, dripping onto the shirt of the body underneath her, eyes stinging at the smoke lingering in the room and the sight before her.

The hot flames of the burning in the room brought her attention to the other issue at hand— _she had to rid of the fire._ Fast feet ran out of the bedroom, through the sitting room, and to the kitchen for the two twenty-gallon bottles of water in the pantry that have been waiting to be used for any emergency for the last two years. One bottle, heavy, gurgled with bubbles as she lifted it and brought it to her room in a squat. The bottle, once opened at the spout, poured water onto the flames that hissed in pain and minimized on contact. _Shit. Close the window._ Scattered thoughts pounded on her, reminding her to take out the flames, get rid of the smoke, keep it on the down low, and a list of other worries and stresses that she couldn't even keep track of. The water drained from the jug and took out most the flames, leaving licks of remains on the boards of electronic devices and camera batteries—she rushed back to the kitchen for more water and a rag, and extinguished the rest of it.

The kitten's running along the kitchen dish rag whipped through the air as Violet thrashed it around, pushing the last of the smoke out of the window before slamming it shut. Eyes observed the room again. Smoke lingered, keeping it's hold over the apartment. _Dammit._ At least now people would (hopefully) see it as a kitchen disaster, not an emergency.

That was the lesser of her problems, though. Her gaze shifted to the bloody mess behind her, turned to face it, and covered her mouth to keep the scream from coming out. Tears begun again. She just _killed him._

"W-W-What am I going to d-do?" Violet looked around the room for something to cover him up with. No, it wouldn't do. Blood was soaked all around his split head and had to be cleaned or contained. If she left him there, the blood would only continue to saturate that one area—she needed a tarp. The photographer's footsteps echoed through the silence of the flat and into the small kitchen where she reached under the kitchen sink to her left, by the trashcan, and retrieved the large plastic roll of bulk garbage bags. There was no reason to go for the small white roll of trash liners—it wouldn't fit a body.

Back to her room and to the nightmare. If being at crime scenes every day wasn't her job, she would've thrown up twice by now: at the initial realization at what she had done and coming back and touching him. She tore the garbage bag at the seams, morphing it to a plastic tarp and laid it onto the floor next to his body where there was room to move the 100-kilo hunk of flesh. There was no possibility of lifting him, not by herself, so rolling the body similarly to a burrito into the tarp would have to do. She wiped her balmy, bloody hands onto her sweater before grabbing onto Brandon's torso, starting to push—

 _Knock, knock, knock!_ Her heart rate rose into her throat, constricting her, suffocating her, bringing her to a sweaty panic. _What if someone called the police?_ And worse, it was **Lestrade** because he heard the address over dispatch? She'd be done for, she'd be—the knock came again, this time followed by a muffled high-pitched voice that would bring her some control over herself. It was Darcy.

Violet slowly approached the door with apprehension, not quite sure whether or not to trust the door from keeping herself safe for the time being. The cold touch of the tile that greeted the front door area shocked her feet, but there was no time to pay any attention to such details. She had one challenge ahead of her—her neighbor. Fingers padded onto the wood of the door, followed by the apprehensive ear that stuck itself to hear through the hollow wall separating neighbor with murderer.

Another knock.

"Violet, dear!" Darcy's voice, while hard and old, dripped concern. "Are you two all right in there? I smelt smoke, do I need to call for help?"

"N-N-No! We're fine, Brandon's just having trouble in the kitchen!" Violet gulped down the sticky mucus forming in her throat. "Just have to air out some!"

"Why aren't you opening the door, Violet?"

 _Can't she just fuck off—_ Violet reached up a hand to wipe the tears staining her face, looked toward the ceiling to take a deep breath for strength, and unlocked the door and opened it a crack. Her head and what little of her body was seen through the massively small crack prevented the shorter old woman from being able to see the scene behind her and inside. The woman, with her bug-eye glasses, leaned forward and got up in the other's face.

"We're fine, see? It's just," Violet coughed a few times, an element of her façade she _didn't_ have to fake. "It's just all the smoke, I didn't want to open the door and have you inhale it! You must take care of your health, Darcy. With your looks, you can't have smoke—it'll age you."

"Hm." Darcy begun to touch her stark white hair as a smile curled around her lips. "I suppose you're right. I can't ruin myself _just yet._ "

"Of course, now head on back to your flat, I've got it covered." Fingers stuck together and formed a gesture of shooing the old lady away who gladly obliged and took her cue to leave. _Slam!_ The door slammed shut, the rattles of the locks going into their place quickly following. Now that she was gone, Violet's fight against her panic dropped, immediately reverting to tears, muffled sobs, and pacing between the sitting room and bedroom.

There was no way she could bring the body out of the flat, it was light out and someone was bound to notice if she were to bring a large two-meter garbage bag that looked very well like a body into a dump. She couldn't leave him where he was, the blood would just soak into that one spot and stink the whole flat, and Darcy wouldn't just leave from her doorstep if she smelt such a dreadful stench. No way in hell could her alone bring his hunk of flesh into the bathroom and to the tub. If she left him in the corner of the room in the tarp the smell wouldn't spread, giving her at least a moment to think of what to do. A light dizzy feeling filled her mind, blurring her vision—her pacing was making her lose herself much faster than she already was. Violet returned to the bedroom and resumed her previous activity, grabbing the man with all her might and tipping him onto his back and onto the plastic tarp. With one heavy push, his body toppled onto the tarp with a _thunk,_ blood spilled onto the plastic, and brought her one step closer to having him wrapped up. Another push, and she wrapped him up in the makeshift tarp and pushed him into the corner.

Violet took steps back, knocking her knees into the bed, and set herself down onto the comforter to take a new look at the mess. _What the hell am I going to do._ Ash supported the pile of mixed chunks of destroyed metal, drives, and glossy photos, spread along the gaping hole of wood stripped from its carpet cover that stared at anyone who came to see it. Coal colored, charred pieces of once-fluffed carpet lined the edges of the naked wood, almost in the shape of what could be the opening of Hell itself. Hell, specifically gifted to a Violet White of 203B. All her cameras, her computers, _her life,_ was in ruins, destroyed by the now overthrown ruler of her body and mind.

 _It was a crime-scene._ Something she would be given the job to capture. Shaky legs brought themselves up to approach the scene from a higher view, taking in every detail of it, taking in every note as if for a case that would be tailored and fit for the courts. The bright red stains covering a massive portion of the carpet suggested that the injury came from the head or chest where blood would gush out at massive amounts. By the ash and their unique clues of the fire, the origin appears to be man-made, purposely, and by the ignition of gasoline and support of flammable material found within the remains of the pile left behind. The gasoline stains left near the victim's original position of death supports the previous accusation. Torn pieces and salvages from what appear to be photos of creative works of either the victim or perpetrator are incorporated in the damage, suggesting that the motive had some sort of emotional drive or revenge drive…

"What am I doing? Building a report against myself?" A raspy chuckle escaped through her lips as she pushed a hand through her hair and wiped her cheeks and continued to look around the area of what would be interesting for her work. Her eyes ran over her previous observations and came over a detail she came to miss—a survivor.

A layer of settled ash covered the survivor, two photo halves that didn't make it to the flames of Hell, but in fact lived to stay alive another day. Her shaky hand held the halves while the other wiped off the layer, revealing the survivor that brought a feeling of warmth to her chest, opposite to the trembling fear that otherwise occupied.

Suit-clad with the sun shining glitter onto Ray Bans. A posture of confidence, of _dominance,_ and of a coolness that no one could come up to. – _Waiting for someone._

"… _He'll fix any problem you have, make it to get rid of your nasty lover or to disappear to South America…"_

"… _arsehole in Westwood with his Bee Gees fetish…"_

 _Bee Gees fetish. Bee gees… Bee Gees._ Violet squinted at the photo. It had to be him. The navy-blue suit, sharp and fit perfect for his angular form, worth a fortune at the quality of the fabric used. It would make sense to be Vivienne Westwood or any other expensive designer. She rubbed her eyes. Her head was _throbbing, pulsating_ at the effort needed to analyse the photo. …Deep breath… —Slicked back hair, not too greasy yet not allowing any frays to come loose—vanity at its finest, spending on the finest money can buy to make himself look better than anyone else. Ironically enough, however, he was treated like everyone else at the shop that day—undetected, hidden from the world, pushing buttons from the shadows. The rest of the photo received no treatment, no observation, just the blank stare of the stressed and exhausted girl who had captured it.

Violet reached for her face again, wiping her eyes and sniffling up mucus threatening to come out. She was too much of a mess to go out and search for this figure—she looked up at the clock on her nightstand—and it was too late to go now, everything was closing. The bag in the corner pulled her gaze to her nightmare once more, tempting her to give in, give up, and just turn herself in. It was what she should do, tell Lestrade, tell Sherlock, tell them that she killed Brandon because he just went too far. She could say it in self-defense, but…

No. She was _not_ going to jail, not now, not ever. Not if He can fix it. Make it all disappear.

"Better clean up, first…" Violet looked down at her stained, ruined sweater and the dried orange-red blood smeared on all sides of her hands. She already spread the evidence to her window and everything else she touched, getting anything on the bed sheets would only create more of a problem for herself. The trip to the bathroom was long and slow with her feet as weights, pulling her down and preventing her from getting any further within her flat. The face that met her at the mirror was exhausted, covered in black smears from the ash, speckled with red dots, and blush red from the tears that could not be tamed. Violet stripped from her clothing and took the executive decision to shower, erase herself from the evidence, erase herself from her filth. Her skin _burned_ with every scrape she made with salt, shedding the filth and guilt from her form to reveal a fresh new layer. The water scaled her face with its warmth and let the black go down the drain.

Once finished, she littered bowls of vinegar around the flat, cracked the windows, and she hit the couch in her sitting room and let the world of dreams overtake her.

Taking a step into her bedroom that morning was difficult. It took an hour after dawn for her to finally take the step in and face the large sore that was the black bag in the corner of the room, the embodiment of death that refused to just disappear. The destroyed hump of junk near the body did not help ease the sight, ease the panic—it only fueled the body's want to break down and suffocate at Panic's hand. Violet refused to prolong her stay, for the longer she stared, the closer she was to ending it there and now with a confession to the Yard. She got what she needed: a new pair of pants, black, and a new sweater, free from the tainted stains of blood. Slipping on a cream cable knit sweater and grabbing her bag was a quick transaction, for desperation to escape and run away from her room held the wheel—Violet got on her shoes, hurried on her pea-coat, and was out the door. She checked twice, thrice, to make sure the door was locked. No one was getting in. Not now.

The trip to the coffee shop just by Green Park Station was by far more calming than her flat. It was a Sunday, and while the Tube was always busy, the lack of business people in a rush made it bearable; the people distracted her today, not like the usual stress she got from having herself surrounded by people. Today was a plus.

The Wolseley was in Mayfair on Picadilly, a place that brought her solace, even if it were just for a small moment with tea. She entered the café, taking a brief look around at the tables plated in a shimmering gold and at the faces that occupied them, and entered the line at the bar to order. She ordered a pot of green tea and a scone to munch on and keep her busy—messing with the layers in the pastry was a better use of her time than occupying her mind about different ways she could be housed in prison at any time. With tea pot in hand, she sat herself down at the window table she sat at last time after the Bates case. The Wolseley was a pricey place where drinks were four pounds and pastries were no less than six, but it was her refuge. Brandon never came here, didn't _ruin it_ for her, and would never spend the money to come here, and that made it all the more for Violet. The atmosphere was a good change of pace for her during the week.

Her eyes scanned the heads of those occupying the other tables and window singles, of the man in a grey V-neck talking to his significant other about juicy gossip by the looks of it, and of those walking into the café for their morning cuppa. Then the thought entered her mind—what if that day was just mere luck, and not a usual occurrence? She'd be wasting her time here. It would only dig her hole further the more she waited, and if it was not worth it here, she'd have to think of elsewhere. _I can wait for a bit._ Violet looked down at her tea that she poured into a ceramic cup, swirling with a few excess leaves and grinds, and blew at it. The ripples were more interesting than the thoughts running through her mind.

 _Ding!_ Eyes shot up. The bell that sat above the door to signal customers sung as a woman in a bright red coat walked in followed by a child in a dinosaur covered coat with a dinosaur hat made of rubber. _Ding!_ Someone leaving. This repeated for hours, following the sun's rise into the day and into the afternoon. The tea pot on the table refilled three times before Violet ceased her drinking and merely busied herself on her phone. She had to keep distracted.

 _Bzzzz!_

 _How are you doing? You gave us a scare yesterday. - John_

Violet looked up at the banner notification, inwardly cringing at the text. What would she say? _What could she say?_ 'Oh, I just flat out murdered my boyfriend, it's all better now!' The eye roll could be felt from across the café with how dramatic it was.

 _Fine. Just had to make it back in time. Not a problem, though! –V_

 _Ding! … Ding!_ Violet, instead of her usual routine of looking up and taking note of the new customers, kept her eyes on the message window with John to respond and assure him that she was fine. Sure, he'd think she was fibbing, but he wouldn't press too much as to make her close up on him—he wasn't an ass like Sherlock. She got no response. He was probably taking care of Sherlock; the detective probably let his experiments and old human limbs scatter all over the kitchen again.

"What am I doing…?" A heavy sigh left her lips as she closed her eyes and rubbed them at attempt to rub out the exhaustion and stress that hung from her lids. It didn't help, it only made the corners of her eyes sting just as much as her bottom lids did. With all her crying from earlier and the day before, rubbing her eyes wasn't the best idea. Was she wasting her time? She'd lose everyone in her life either way, whether it be by becoming a criminal in the eyes of the law or just her friends—she'd pop eventually. Eventually succumb to the judgement of others, the fear of being found out, and everything that came with it. There was no way she'd be able to deal with it.

Her eyes squinted in retaliation against the sun's awful rays peaking from the grey clouds of London and through the window; her head turned, facing the café, and it was time for another scan of the area. Nothing. Again. Violet scanned a second time, this time catching a detail she otherwise missed due to the cloudiness fogging her mind and the lack of focus in her eyes. Or maybe due to how undetectable he was. He was in a corner table clad in a black coat, suit underneath, and what looked like shades resting on the table top. It was him, there was no doubt about it—none of these lackeys were as up-kept as he was, Violet could see that even on the opposite side of the café.

A plummet in her stomach brought her down, weighing on her and stopping her from getting up and walking up to him. _She couldn't just_ _ **walk**_ _up to him!_ What would she say? What would she even do, go for a _casual_ conversation? It would be embarrassing, there'd be no way someone would give her even a second of attention. She fell forward, her forehead slamming with the table in front of her, an audible muffled moan escaping from her lips—Violet White was a nervous wreck and approaching people was not her thing, especially killers that could slit her throat before she could even say the first word.

Violet's face slid up, her chin supporting it on the table top as she looked in his direction again. What if he was nice and would greet her with a charming smile, a glint in his eye, and offer her a drink? … What was she kidding, it'd be stupid to think of such a thing in a man Sherlock even feared (even if just a little and he'd refuse to admit it). Maybe today wasn't her day. Actually, she'd give up now if it weren't for the _dead body in her flat._ She drew a breath and looked over at her teapot which was half past full, back to the direction of her goal, and to the bar.

 _You can do this._

A tightness squeezed in her chest, spreading from her lungs to her stomach, tainting her ability to take the jump. "… Fuck it, let's do this." The photographer sat up, grabbed the tea pot, and rose to bee-line to the bar, requesting a refill in water for her tea. Weight increased in her right hand and her left hand shook violently with two ceramic mugs hanging from the handles she gripped with three fingers. Her steps begun to sound louder than the voices filling the café until the rapid heartbeat rung through her ears and pulsated in her throat—eyes glossed over with forming tears and her breathing increased with every meter closed between the two. She was going to panic before she even got there. She was going to drop everything, embarrass herself, and ruin her opportunity at a future without bars surrounding her every side—

"No, I'm not interested in singles in my area. Run along now." The voice brought her from her trance, the Irish drawl reaching her ears and humming through her form. She blinked, realizing where she was—standing in front of the table where the man sat, staring at him like an idiot. Luckily, he didn't look up, but even as she brought herself down to the now of things, she didn't have the courage to speak up. Lips opened, ready to speak, but all that came out was an empty breath.

Dark, cold eyes finally met her gaze, unamused and frankly, uninterested with what she had to say. His eyebrow perked, judging her, analyzing her, creating a portfolio of her that was probably meant to be trashed by the end of the hour. Without words, she knew he was waiting for her to say what she was doing there, wasting his time.

Her hands shook further, the pot's top shuttering as warning of potential disaster if she continued. Tea came out of the spout and onto her hand, burning her and pushing her to actually _say something._

"U-Uh… Uhm… W-w-well, I erm..." She gulped, choking back the nerves, trying to compose herself. It wasn't working in her favor, and as a bounce back, decided to take the liberty of sitting in the chair to his right and setting the pot and mugs down to prevent them from spilling or breaking any further. How would she say it? _Could she say it?_ Saying things aloud meant they became more real, and Violet wasn't too sure she could live up to that. Clearly, the man before her was the right man—she wouldn't end up telling a stranger and going down in the most embarrassing way possible.

She leaned forward over the table to him, not quite realizing how close in his space she was getting and how dangerous the decision could potentially be, where he took no liberty to react—he was unfazed.

"Okay, so." she paused, looking down with a sigh before raising her head up again and continuing her whisper. "I sort of k-kinda fucked up in my life, and w-well, I need you to fix it."

He looked at her, expression unchanging, and sat in silence with her for a good minute. It was then that he leaned back in his own chair, whipped out his mobile, and started to tap away at his phone. Did he flat out **ignore** what she said? Violet watched him for a moment. Was she that boring?

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Oh, I heard you." He finished tapping away for a moment, looked up at her, then back at the phone. "Darling, I don't _do_ any kind of fixing. Sure, I can stretch, I'm relatable that way, but I can't tell you whether you should break up with your boyfriend or not."

"That's the thing… I sort of… well…" she paused, closed her eyes, and stooped to a low whisper. ".. _killed him." There._ She said it, it was out in the open.

James Moriarty stopped his texting and stared at the dots signaling a reply in progress—did he hear that right? His eyes rose to meet the girl's. By the first glance at her he could see that she had low self-esteem and was desperate for love and approval. That she was weak, clearly not capable of murder. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought she was lying to him. No one could lie to him. Dark eyes hovered over her shoulder length hair, the exhaustion and anxiety shaking up her complexion and brightness from her eyes, the shudder in her left hand, and finally, back to her face. She needed work, and with a test or two, perhaps he'd even keep her.

He cocked an eyebrow, slipped his mobile back in his pocket, and leaned forward on the table with his elbows on the table top. " _Well,_ aren't we a brave gal? Mmhh… Don't really have much experience with how to handle it and you come on searching for me. You found me, I'll give you that much. –What's your name?"

"V-Violet. Violet White." The stutter in her voice was getting on his nerves. This murder of hers was clearly within the last day or so, she was still shaken up by it, she could hardly function. How she knew _who_ he was and what he did was still an interesting question he'd yet to figure out, but just the fact she sought him out pleased him. There was drive stuck in the depths of her core, ready to come out and squash those who brought it down—she just kept it in. What a shame.

"Well then, _Violet,_ what do you expect meeee to fix~?" He noted her insecurity and fear of telling him what it was that _she_ wanted in her life. Ugh, it was sore on his eyes to watch such a thing.

"I want a chance to live my own life, and I can't do that if I were caught for this." She paused. "I want a happy ending instead of a nightmare." The glimmer in her eyes held faith in him, a stranger, a criminal mastermind who would manipulate and extort her 'til she was on her knees. Oddly, he enjoyed the loyalty she seemed to have for those close to her.

"Happy endings don't even exist in fairy tales—my dear. Let alone in the real world. But then again…" He glanced up in false wonder, a hand brushing his chin. "Doesn't life imitate art?" His eyes searched her features for a reaction in which she gave little to go off. She was so exhausted, she just wanted a yes or no answer on whether he'd help.

James shifted in his chair and sat back to not touch the table, got out his mobile again, and swiped the lock screen away.

 _Give me everything you have on a Violet White. Caucasian, British, Brown hair, Brown eyes. – JM_

 _Right away, sir. – G_

After tapping away at his text, James put his phone back and dug for a card. The card was stark white with no writings, designs, or any texture. A pocket pen followed in his other hand, to which he wrote an address on the card and held it out to her. While she served no interest to him now, perhaps the murder she'd committed and just _how_ she knew of him would—he'd give her case a chance.

"You'll be getting a call tonight, just answer. My boys will take care of your mess." He rose from the chair and straightened out his suit jacket after picking up and putting on his sunglasses. Through the lenses, he saw her confusion and building anxiety.

"Speak up, now, dear. I _am_ quite busy, I can't sit here all day."

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Memorise it. The ink is temporary. My boys will tell you the rest." She looked helpless, searching his face as if he'd be the answer to everything. The consultant let out a sigh and roll of the eyes through the glasses.

"Behave until then. I suggest staying at your flat in the meantime and not doing anything else you might regret. Emotional times _do_ hinder one's ability to function, after all." James gave her one last look, searing her face into his mind for safe keeping, and begun to saunter off to the exit.

"Ciao, my flower."

And like that, he was gone.

Violet White had just made the starting of what would be a deal with the devil. She stared at the now empty exit of the café, then down at the card in her hands.

 _A.06.1, One Hyde Park, 100, Knightsbridge, London SW1X 7LJ – JM x_

Was she doing the right thing? Avoiding punishment because of the chance that she might get to live her own life without being pushed around by a dictator? Reverting to her old habits and just giving in to confession seemed the right thing to do, but the card she held in her hand gave her a different feeling. A feeling of inciting change ahead.

Maybe, just maybe, it'd work out for her in the end.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** And that's it for _The Stranger!_ Please review, I'd love to hear from you all! As always, here's a sneak peek.

 **Chapter 4 –** _Pick Up_

Even though she knew he was a criminal mastermind that tortured, killed, and broke people daily, it was quite hard to believe it now. He was just like an angel. And hopefully he'd become her saving grace.


	4. Pick Up

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much to everyone investing in this! :) I'm glad so many are enjoying the development so far. As incentive to review, anyone who reviews will get a small spoiler for a later chapter, and of course, the story will update quicker. ~

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"… A.06.1, One Hyde Park, 100…" The hushed whisper echoed throughout the flat, unsettling the dark silence that once floated over it all. Violet White followed directions from the notorious consulting criminal and returned home to her flat, staying put until she was to get the call from whoever would help with her mess. Her head ached and her body exhausted, she decided to lay on her couch and continue with the address until it was second nature to her mind—the ink faded long before she was even half way through the Piccadilly Line on the tube, so memorization was key. She was sure that if she even considered writing it down in pen on another paper she'd have her hand cut off as punishment, so quickly refrained from the idea.

James Moriarty was mysterious—she wasn't quite sure how to describe him. Sure, Sherlock was quite on the dot, even she saw that—he held power and could do anything he pleased. However, she saw a little bit more than that. She saw a how quick, sharp, and capable he was. A genius, one that brought a tingle of excitement to her life; he could get her to say what _she_ wanted, to open about her wants, and that was something even John had difficulty with.

There was just _something_ alluring about him.

She couldn't believe it. She couldn't. But it was happening—she was breaking the law by avoiding her fate for the blood on her hands. Sherlock Holmes would notice the difference, notice the lack of any controller in her life, surely, he'd know. She would be found out, so why not do the right thing.

"What am I doing…? Maybe I should just… just… ugh, j-just _confess!"_ Her arm reached up and across her face, hiding half of her face, covering her eyes. Confessing to her sins and accepting punishment would be the better thing to do, for it would keep herself free from any burden of ever been found out. She knew it would be the right decision. Though _knowing_ and _doing_ were oceans apart.

The Consulting Criminal was a professional—he knew how to cover up any conspiracy, especially those far bigger than her insignificant murder of some low-life who happened to get off on abusing others. He was a master, there was no chance of getting caught. Not only that, but the risk—the risk _did not_ _ **compare**_ to the benefit that may come for her. The photographer would live a free live with her job, her own choices, and possibly earn a chance of becoming a stronger individual outside the shadows of anyone else.

"…But that involves going against any morals I have. Not only that, but I'd have to…" She sighed, sliding her arm off her face and onto her stomach. "I'd have to lie to Sherlock and John. I couldn't do that—… mhh, I can never do any of this right. Why didn't I just… leave in the first place to avoid all of this?" _Because you're cursed of always getting into trouble._ Her inner voice spat disapproval, causing her to groan aloud. —The idea of losing Sherlock and John because of her lies she'd have to spew made her sick to her stomach. She couldn't do this right, she could hardly get away with small fibs—a giant lie covering up the murder of Brandon was far worse than saying she was okay when she was exhausted after a fight with her boyfriend. One involved prison, the other involved a concerned slap of the wrist and a hug.

 _Bzzzzz!_ Violet jumped, her bones shuddering at the noise, her heart stopping at the sudden panic flooding through her form; her eyes glued to her left and found the culprit of the noise—her mobile. She'd gotten a text. The breath she held slowly escaped through her nose, bringing her back to Earth and to her more stable state of mind (or as stable as it could be).

 _Still breathing? Dreading the fact there's no murder this weekend? – SH_

It was his way of checking up on her. Function meant survival, boredom meant rusting of the parts. She couldn't help but feel a tight grip in her chest at his mention of murder. _I've had my dose of murder for the weekend. Want to come find out how I did it?_ Violet faked a gagging motion before unlocking the screen of her mobile and tapping the keys with her nails to respond.

 _Breathing. I hope John hid your stash. – V_

 _Rude. What am I supposed to do with no killer on the loose? – SH_

 _Don't you have another case on your mind? – V_

 _It's been quiet. – SH_

 _Keep in touch, Vie. – SH_

 _Will do, Curly Fu. – V_

The battlefield restarted, both sides at the ready, aim to win—to do the right thing or take the risk. Violet locked her phone and stared at the black screen of the TV, reflecting her very image: hunched over, exhausted, and not ready to face any type of judgement. She ran a hand through her wavy hair and looked around her flat, from the TV to the statue knick knacks she collected from the craft store on the shelves to the right and finally to her room door that was shut but still managed to bring a chill down her back. She already dug the hole this far, there was no going back, and that meant taking the risk for the gain.

The phone buzzed again, this time in a series, signaling the call coming in for her. She looked down at it. _Unknown._ That must be it, the call he said there would be. This was the first jump, the jump towards her own life. _Swipe._

"H-Hello?"

"Three minutes. Keep all the lights off and make sure the door is unlocked. Make certain that your neighbors won't get curious. Be in the flat when we arrive." The call ended. The man on the other line was to the point, professional, and not one for any unnecessary details—and she could've sworn she's heard that voice before.

There was three minutes for her to follow directions, and a thought lingering in the depths of her mind told her that if she were to fail, the whole plan would be cancelled and she'd be left alone in the dark. The lights were all off within the flat apart from the side table lamp next to the couch which was quickly extinguished. Quick feet followed through, heading out of the flat and down the common stairs to the outside street. She peeped around the corner to see the windows, including Darcy's and her own, where Darcy appeared to be talking on the phone—her yapping would go for days, so she was confident she wouldn't be a problem. The neighbors across the hall from Violet were always out on business trips, so they would not be a problem either.

The inside of her bottom lip begun to bleed at how much she was biting off the skin, waiting, pacing back and forth by the door. Heavy feet hurried up the stairs outside the door, the moans and groans of the wood stairs announcing their arrival, and opened the door to her flat at their arrival. She counted three men, two behind the main man who opened the door, dressed in a leather coat and combat boots. Violet's eyes widened. A scar dressed his face and a short-military influenced cut adorned his features. It was the man from the subway. He followed her gaze as she came to her realization and only allowed a smirk at the end of his lips signal his mutual feelings toward her.

"Where's your mess?" His deep, dangerous drawl dripped from his lips, far more familiar than it had been from the phone call. All she did was walk to her room and open the door to allow the other two men to walk by and start their clean up. One unfolded a body bag and laid it out onto the floor while the other peeled off Violet's make shift cover to look at the damage.

"We'll take care of it." The third man, the tiger-like man, followed his boys and begun making orders for what their methods of operation were to be for the specific case. The sound of the front door opening again brought Violet's breath to a stop and her gaze to the source—it was just another man dressed in cleaning attire and equipped with cleaning supplies. He headed in her direction, to where she looked back into the room and back at him.

"So, what's your job in all of this?"

"I will be…" The man joined her by her side and took a peek into the scene where he mentally omitted the other three from the room. "… Replacing the carpet, cleaning the wood, removing the evidence of any blood, and whatever else needs to be cleaned to look as if this never happened. My job will be getting rid of any residue that could cause concern for anyone." The cleaner walked into the room and replaced the position the leader of the group held, where he approached Violet and led them out of the bedroom.

They stood in the sitting room by the couch in silence, where Violet took in more details than before. Instead of his casual attire he wore the other day on the Tube, he wore a suit underneath his jacket, lacing professionalism with his brute style—it was clearly a touch the consulting criminal wanted of him. His hands were rough, suggesting he was a fighter—a hitman, one that did the dirty work while his boss sat back and gave the orders. His posture suggested military far more than his haircut—it was proof of his background, of his habits. A smoker. Probably more scars than just his face. A marksman, looking by the way he held his hands—no shaking what so ever. Steady. He was truly dangerous, a perfect soldier for James Moriarty's web.

"… - Did you memorise the address given to you?"

"Uh—Oh, yeah. I did."

"These are your instructions, remember them well." He continued after her nod. "Piccadilly line to Knightsbridge Underground. Get off, walk around the west corner block to Brompton Road, Belgravia. You should be able to find the building from there—again, remember the address. Don't ask for directions. Don't linger, don't look nervous. You're visiting a friend, it's a normal house visit. Any questions?" His eyes searched for any confusion that may come her way.

Violet stared at the man. _Yes. Would someone be following me? Watching me? Don't look nervous—I am the_ _ **embodiment**_ _of nerves, dude._ She shook her head no. It was simple—well, the traveling part. The 'how to act part,' not so much.

"I would also advise to look well dressed and be on your toes. The Boss can change his attitude real fast."

She pointed to her room and rose her eyebrows to which he gave her a nod. She shuffled off and turned around the corner to her closet to where she grabbed her nicest outfit—not that it could compare to what James Moriarty, a man who was able to afford a flat in _One Hyde Park,_ thought at 'well-dressed.' The clean-up crew was quick to rid of her, to where she returned to the sitting room, a simple blue short-sleeved dress and pair of black stockings draped over her arm. The marksman continued his instructions to her once she came back to her previous position.

"Keep your ground, or as much as someone like you possibly can. Knock twice then ring the bell." The man put his hand on the small of her back and begun to lead her out of her flat, not even giving her enough time to ask if she could change before leaving. "Leave now and don't return until given further instruction to do so. Is there anyone you are expecting to visit your flat anytime tonight?"

"N-N-No. – _No."_

And at that, she was out of her flat and the door was slammed behind her. She looked back at the door then to the outfit in her arm—where would she change? She was kicked out of _her own flat,_ for Christ's sake! The dress wasn't anything fancy, it was business appropriate, but not Chanel or Prada. Well, she wasn't trying to _impress him_ or anything. She needed his services to cover her ass for murder, that was it. Done. After this, she may even have Sherlock take care of him and he'd be behind bars (right?).

The bathrooms in Oakwood station weren't the cleanest, but it would have to do to allow her to change into her dress without having a show for the rest of the crowds heading to their rightful places in London. She held her old outfit and bought a drink and bag to put it in. The train was a boring ride, one where she dozed off for a small rest, listening to the tracks, the screeching of every halt, and the mumbles of fellow riders talking about their day.

… _We are now arriving to Knightsbridge Station. Please Mind the Gap and wait for the train to come to a complete stop. Thank you. We are now arriving…_

Eye lids struggled to open and return to their alert selves. Her yawn was inaudible from the screaming of the tracks coming to a halt, slowing to align with the landing pad lines. With the jerk of the stop and the ding of the arrival, the doors slid open and allowed its passengers off and on, to which Violet stepped off and continued her journey to the exit and to the surface streets. Even later in the day where the sun was gone and smog covered the sky, London's streets still lit with the lights of cars and shops galore. It was one of the things Violet liked about London—the lights, the beauty of the city, and the architecture of the buildings that stood tall in the night sky.

 _Walk around the block to Brompton Road._ Violet nagged herself not to speed down the street, but rather go at a comfortable pace—the instruction to keep her cool was proving far more difficult than how it was said. She was going to a criminal mastermind's flat, what was casual about that? Cue mental eye roll.

The street was decorated with a row of six-floor high apartments overlooking Hyde Park on the opposite side she was, showing off their dazzling gleam and large panels of glass with a sneak peek of the riches inside. She never really came to this area of London, apart from one case she and Sherlock were on, because it was for the upper class—a flat was easily over a million pounds. One Hyde Park flats were known to be up to _twenty-three million pounds._ She couldn't even dream making that much in one life time, let alone as chump change to spend on multiple flats for the fun of it.

Violet repeated the address in her mind as she crossed the street and headed to the buildings, spotted the correct numbers, and headed inside. She reached the elevator with the scrutinizing gazes of suited security watching her and pressed the number six before the doors slid shut. The ride was smooth, giving her time to clear her mind, but the nerves just seemed to come washing back over her mental walls as the doors slid open and revealed a flat door with _1_ nailed above the peek hole.

Unsteady feet approached the door and came to a halt at the sound of metal doors sliding shut and locking, signaling the elevator's finished mission. _You got this._ Violet gave a sigh before officially having to stand in front of the door where her shaky fist rose to the wood. _Knock knock._ She immediately went for the bell to her right and pressed it, holding it for a second before releasing it.

No one answered.

It seemed like forever where she stood there and waited, when it was only a count of thirty-seconds. The door slid open with a natural and quite grace and revealed an older gentleman in a simple black suit and bow tie; he had a bushy white mustache and balding white hair that appeared to go well with his thin-framed circular glasses. The first thing she saw when he opened the door was his gentle smile.

"You must be Miss White. It's a pleasure. Please, won't you come in?" The door opened wider with the man standing by its side to allow room for Violet to enter. Her shoes clicked onto the black wooden floors as she entered, taking a moment to take off her shoes, standing by them as she waited for the man's instructions.

"My name is Griffith, the Master's servant. You may call me at any time should you require anything. Shall we continue?" Violet nodded. Griffith closed the door and begun to lead the way through the hallway, hands behind his back and back in an upright posture. The hallway had shelves on either side that showed off the man's prizes over the years—a Chinese tea set that looked over hundreds of years old, a wooden battle weapon carved in the shape of a club with a bear's claws on the end, antique Indonesian and Buddhist masks found in ancient temples, and a list of all sorts of additional artifacts. The hall way had no dirt or dust to be found—it was _spotless._ She could see that Griffith took good care of the place.

The walk was short to get to the end of the hallway and into the reception room. The ceiling was shimmering with gold tinsels and bright light, shining onto the leather white couches and chairs. The walls were a shiny grey marble and had framed photos and paintings decorating the length of the room. The wall opposite from her was complete _glass,_ revealing the lights and shine of the city below. A plush creme carpet begun three feet into the formal reception, where she was stuck walking by herself since the servant stopped at the end of the hallway.

"It appears Sebastian gave you some fashion advice." Violet walked up to the sitting area to stand in front of the leather couch opposite from the dark-clad man lounging in the corner seat of his own couch, glass of scotch in his hand. She put two and two together and made the conclusion that the man she spoke with was Sebastian—the man she took a photo of and currently had on her camera in her side bag. A fitting name for him.

"I don't own much, but I hope it will suffice." Violet took a seat on the couch after setting her plastic bag of her old outfit under the coffee table top to be out of the way. She was met with a look of disapproval in the criminal's eyes upon looking up. Did she do something wrong? "What?"

"—Nothing. Now, how did it go with the boys? They get you settled?" She nodded. " _Goood.~"_ James motioned to the reception room with his free hand in a circulating motion. "Hope you like the place. It's not my favorite, I do rather enjoy my country house better, but… what can you do with all these **wasteful** bodies taking up the space of London. Doesn't allow for mansions to fit _just_ anywhere."

He sure liked to hear himself to talk, that was for sure. She was here for business, not to talk about how he can't fit his damn mansion into the heart of London because of masses of people _also_ living here, too. She didn't reply. There was nothing to say, if she complimented him or anything similar, she'd only be stroking his ego, and he had enough of that already. … _Crap._ She noticed. Violet always noticed when people were analyzing her, figuring her out, judging her; by the way he was looking at her, the waves in her hair that hadn't been washed all day, her un-ironed dress she picked up quickly before coming here, the lack of posture in her back as she sat, refusing to sit against the couch's back. It made her uncomfortable—she could basically feel him _crawling_ all over her, touching her in every place possible, claiming ownership over her entire form. It felt violating.

"Your flat is nice, even though it's not as big as you'd prefer. The palette is fantastic, it flows so well throughout. You design it yourself?" Her voice cracked, falling a note as she spoke, a dead giveaway of her attempt to get him off the topic of looking at her.

James Moriarty took a sip of his drink, the burning sensation following all the way down his throat, and took the clue and shifted his gaze out the window. It peeved him. It irked him, her constant habit of retracting into the shadows, avoiding scrutiny, avoiding observation—she was a sight to see, with work to be done, and she just couldn't accept that. The suit-clad man ignored it aloud and let his Irish drawl slip out from between his lips again, switching topics.

"Brandon Thorell, Illinois native, got a promotion with his construction business this week. He was due to stay here, but heard word of his sick mother who has an inheritance back in the States. Decides to leave to America and stay there since one of the supervisor he's sleeping with behind your back has an office in Chicago. She has more money, his mother has money, and so he decides to drop you like it's hot. No more details, no room for questions—he up and left.

"This leaves you in an unstable state with your anxiety and inability to be by yourself. You decide to leave your current flat to start fresh and move to a flat closer to Greater London. Do try and avoid any doubts or questions, it can get messy." James looked back at Violet, this time taking the effort of keeping his eyes on her face and not all over.

"That's it? He'll just—disappear?" Violet blinked. What did she think, that he'd make it extremely complex and unbelievable? This _was_ his job. Yes, the story was a bore, but it had to be believable.

"No one will remember who he was, give it another two weeks." He leaned forward and set his drink down onto the coffee table, replacing the cold and moist glass for a notebook that he set into his lap. The pen he unhooked from the top of the notebook begun scribbling in quick notes. "Your case was quite simple. With a weekly payment of nineteen thousand pounds a week…"

"—Wait, _what!?"_ Violet skyrocketed from the couch, her already white complexion paling at the thought. _Nineteen_ _ **thousand**_ _pounds weekly?_ Sure, she forgot that she'd end up _paying_ for his services, but not a whole leg and arm (make that the whole set). "I _just implied_ that I have **no money,** and you expect me to pay nineteen _thousand pounds!? Weekly?_ Are you fucking _nuts?_ I mean, sure, you are, you fucking almost blew up Sherlock and John for no _**reason**_ , but _really? Really."_ She continued to spew on, throwing hand gestures with her speech and contorting a list of expressions at him. To think she'd be able to pay that off was nuts. Absolutely off the charts.

The consulting criminal watched her refusal, amused at how money rubbed her the wrong way and could push her out of her shell, if only for a little bit. All she said went in one ear and out the other, except those pretty little names. He held a finger up, signaling her to stop. Did she just say _Sherlock_ and _John?_ Hm, no wonder she knew about him and his services.

"—Oh, _what?_ You want me to stop? Well you were looking at me for not saying anything, so _here you go, Mister because—"_ And she kept going. And going. James rolled his eyes, rose to his feet, and circled the coffee table to come toe to toe with the shorter photographer whose cheeks kept getting brighter and brighter with every breath. He stood there, watched her, allowed her to go on, until—well—he just got tired of it. It was all nonsense, and if she were to become a stronger individual, it wasn't going to be like this, because all that would help in would be in making her a whiny _bitch._

Hands shot out and gripped the girl's arms, tightening with every struggle she came back with to get out of his grip. He yanked her forward toward him as she tried to step back with such a force that she was shocked out of her out of character outburst. Her expression screamed how surprised she was that he was _touching her_ while another part shrunk in fear at the dead glare he shot at her.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?" The warmth of his breath floated over her features to which he felt her shudder to. There was doubt in her next move—he caught her pupils shifting in size, giving away her mental process of what she'd do next. All she had to do was pick the right answer. And, well, she didn't do it quite fast enough. James tightened his grip on her arms, not receiving an answer, but a mewl of pain from the back of her throat. "Don't make this harder than it has to be, dear."

Violet White stared at the man just inches from her—he gave off darkness, a dangerous darkness that could at any moment tear her apart. The grip he had on her upper arms spread pain throughout, ensuring bruises that would form by the morrow; she wasn't sure whether or not keeping quiet would have her killed or just damaged beyond repair.

"Y-Yes. T-They're my… uhm, my friends." She looked away from him, down at her feet and his, giving her something to focus on rather than the pain or the searing glare he was burning through her forehead. Relief spread through her right arm, he let go, but her chin was violently brought up to make sure eye contact was maintained.

" _Friends?_ " His tone dripped of an evil motive, interested in the juicy details to stretch and tear limb from limb. She nodded as much as she could through his grip. They kept each other's stares, as if waiting for the other to give in and lose some sort of staring contest, without saying a word. My, she didn't know how dark his eyes really were until now. They were mysterious, but a type of mysterious that drug her in with every second she continued to look into them—they were rather… rather beautiful.

Her thoughts were well destroyed, however, with the owner's voice coming into focus. He dropped her chin and let her go completely, taking a step back to give her space again. Finally, a chance to breathe.

"I do like to hear right from the horse's mouth… Get comfortable, I think we'll get to bond over some similar interests."

His tone, while smoother and calmer than before, meant it as an order, not as an option. She sat back down on the couch and placed her hands into her lap, expecting for him to return to his seat across from him, but was sorely disappointed when she felt the couch sink next to her. He leaned against the back of the couch and faced his body towards her, where he looked ready for a story tale.

"Okay, what do you want to know?" Violet let out a sigh. She may as well start it and end it so she would be able to get out of his hair—he was quite overwhelming to deal with, even if this seemed like a good day.

"How do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well, uhm… when I was in college, a professor was murdered. We met through that case—Sherlock noticed my photography skills and decided to push me into becoming a photographer for Scotland Yard. There's not much to it other than that. We worked together on a lot of cases where I had to take photos of the crime-scenes, and well, we just bonded over time. He says I'm a 'fellow intellectual'." Violet looked at James with a light shrug of her shoulders, clearly not interested on her history with Sherlock and John. It was in the now that she had to focus on (John taught her that), and now they were friends. That was that.

"Mmmh, he may've seen that, but I clearly haven't." James shifted and stared at the ceiling in a false wonder, stroking his neck. "I suppose we can rearrange your way of payment… I'll let you think about it for the evening and propose a different idea. If I like it, we'll go with that. See, I'm relatable that way—I bend for my clients, and not just over a desk." He couldn't help but crack a large smirk at her face. Her face brightened to a deep red, looking away from the criminal, anywhere but him.

Her eyes landed on the windows that showed the city view outside. The lights, the hustle and bustle of autos, and the smog rising from other buildings had a certain charm to it that she always found divine—the city was always bright with ads and clues, but held so much more. It held a past, a reason for the development behind it all, and couldn't be found with just the casual glance. The temperature of her cheeks lowered as she continued to look at the view from the couch, hardly noticing the other in her company.

"The glass is bullet proof. One of few that have it around here—can't be too careful. I do enjoy this flat and its view, but find the other flat I have down the road more pleasing. Four floors to myself. I could show you one day." She failed to hear the hint in his comment. She had failed to hear that he expected her to be around for much longer than she planned, and didn't seem to care. All she did was hum a yes behind closed lips as her eyes begun to droop. The day was exhausting—Brandon, finding him, the clean-up crew, _him._

"You said you were a photographer. I saw. Scotland Yard under DI Lestrade—couldn't get any better than that. Are you in charge of the evidence and reports in the case?"

"Partially. I handle all photographic evidence, I'm in charge of reports that'll prove one's innocence or guilt based on what's at the scene." She was hushed, hypnotized by the glam and gleam of London's view. What was the loss in her talking to him? He probably already knew everything about her, she couldn't go home yet, and by taking Sebastian's advice, couldn't leave until excused.

For the first time that evening, Violet finally leaned back against the couch, closing her eyes and allowing herself to just listen and feel her surroundings. He wasn't going to hurt her—she _owed him,_ and her death would only be a waste. She felt him shift, his knee brushing against hers, but paid no mind to it.

"You said we'd get to bond over similar interests. It's your turn to say something."

"Is it now? Hm, I don't play like that, my dear." She could hardly focus on his voice—all she heard was the comforting smoothness he held. The exhaustion was catching up with her, especially with the little sleep she got the night before while planning on how to find him in the first place—here she was, in his flat, and on the road to change. Perhaps… Well… Perhaps she could…

"Get some rest." She hummed at the voice drowning out and unknowingly leaned toward it. A soft heaviness overcame her body, warming her bare arms and almost exposed legs. It was time. She was out for the count. All she thought about was how she was finally going to have a chance at living her own life without someone else in control.

Even though she knew he was a criminal mastermind that tortured, killed, and broke people daily, it was quite hard to believe it now. He was just like an angel. And hopefully he'd become her saving grace.

James Moriarty watched Violet White fall asleep at the hands of his couch. He slowly rose from the couch and picked up the nearest dark grey plush blanket, laying it over her form and tucking it in by her neck and arms for an extra snug of warmth. While sentiment was a weakness, he had to admit, he was taking a liking to her—not only was she in relation with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, but she was also a crime-scene photographer, a potentially valuable asset to his web. It would help not only him, but his clientele; he had her in the palm of his hands, and if she were to refuse any ideas bubbling in the depths of his mind, he could easily _tear_ her apart.

With a bit of work with how she's screwing up the potential in her life, some improvement, and his special touch, she'd be a work of art. And he'd be the artist.

" _La vie est drôle_ , my flower."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hope to hear from you guys again, thank you so much for all the reviews! I appreciate it so much. I'll be updating within the next couple of days, but I'd love to hear from you guys in the meantime.

I also got together a bit of a soundtrack of sorts for the fic on my tumblr (fanfic doesn't like links).

 **Chapter 5** _\- Back to Work_

Everything she was doing was wrong. She felt dirty. She was a cheat, and somehow was getting away with doing it in front of the greatest Consulting Detective the world's ever seen.


	5. Back to Work

_Bzzzzz~ Bzzzzz~ Bzzz~… Five more minutes…_ Violet hands searched for her phone and pressed on the snooze button. … _Bzzzzz~ Bzzzzz~ Bzzz~._ The buzzing didn't stop—it wasn't her alarm, someone was calling her. This early? Jeez. Her hand reached for her phone again, swiping the screen without opening her eyes and bringing the mobile to the top of her left ear. She was comfortable laying on the plush couch beneath her, warm and cozy from the soft blanket cuddling up to her chin, and rested from the stress-free sleep she'd gotten the entire night. It almost had her forgetting that she was in the flat of a notorious killer that could very well slit her throat at any time.

"… Hello?" Her voice was groggy, muffled, and slurred from the sleepy state of mind she still didn't stretch out from. Violet turned onto her back, not bothering to move the web of hair covering her face.

" _What the_ _ **hell**_ _are you doing, White!? There's a murder and you're not even out of bed!"_ The loud boom of Lestrade's voice shook through the phone, startling the receiver, and bringing her to a stiff sitting position on the couch. _Shit._ How long did she sleep? How many calls _did she miss?_

"Lestrade, can you stop yelling before yo—"

" _NOT REALLY!"_

Violet immediately retracted the phone from her ear at the yell, taking a moment to look at her screen to take a time—it was almost noon and she had missed nine previous calls. She deserved the yelling. She deserved the punishment for ignoring her boss and her work—how could she be so careless? A tight feeling dropped to the pit of her stomach, bringing her to a momentary stage of guilt before she pressed the phone back to her ear. There was time to apologize and feel bad later – now she had to focus on getting to the scene.

"… Where?" May as well bring him back onto the subject at hand.

"The Cumberland, just outside Marble Arch Station. Sixth floor, southwest corner. Just… just get here, White. We'll have everything ready for you." The Cumberland was a hotel just on the other side of Hyde Park.

"On my way!" Just as she hung up with the detective inspector, she jumped up to get started on the day— _Humph!_ The tangled blanket wrapped around her legs and torso brought her flying to the ground. She landed with a grunt and plush fabric falling over her. Violet couldn't recall being that intertwined with the blanket – hell, she couldn't even remember being that comfortable in a long time. She whipped the cover off her, got back to her feet, and dusted her legs off from the fuzz that stuck to her from the fuzzy carpet. She checked her mobile – it seems Lestrade texted her the address. For good measure.

 _Great Cumberland Pl, Marylebone. See you. – Lestrade_

It was easier to play the situation off like some cool dude when in the heat of the moment, but now that everything settled in the dust around her, a feeling of dread and panic begun filling the pits of her stomach again. Guilt clenched at her throat—she was _always_ on time. _Always._ And it seemed just recently that was being tarnished just as much as the rest of her life. "What am I going to do…?" Violet thought aloud before diverting. A smell lingered. She smelt and smelt again. _Eggs._ _ **Bacon.**_ _Beans. It smelt_ _ **divine.**_

"Ah, Miss White." It was his servant—Griffith, she remembered. In fact, she was remembering the previous evening all at once. Another chance for a reflection on her part—great, she spoke too much for the approval and hospitality of the consulting criminal and just about got her throat slit because she exploded at the fact that she owed _nineteen thousand – fucking – pounds a week. Yeah,_ _ **that.**_ Well, she had no idea how she was—

"—Miss White?"

Violet shut herself out from her thoughts and smiled at Griffith, moving to her bag of things, and walking toward the hallway in attempt to get a move on to her day job. She'd be at least an hour late at this pace. "I'm so sorry Griffith, but I have to get going, I'm already late. Already late— _shit—sorry,_ I forgot my equipment at my flat, so I have to head back there before going to work and—"

"Not to worry, Miss White. The Master had Mr. Moran deliver your equipment here with some spare clothes. Since you have risen late and would probably appreciate breakfast, I've taken the liberty to make sure it's ready for you. Please, do stay and nourish your health before leaving. Don't want to be _too early_ to the scene, you understand." He held an elegant tone to his voice, one that felt soft and genuine. The servant cared for those he served, and she felt a surge of respect for that—especially when his main customer was _Westwood himself._

The hotel was across from the park. She'd have time to eat since her things were here. He was right. Violet felt a smile linger onto her lips as she took in another round of the delightful smell of breakfast that came from a far room to her left. She would've bee-lined straight after the smell, if it weren't for the knots and tangles that made up her hair and the over-night face she felt she had. Need not speak, Griffith seemed to know what she needed and led her down the hall she went through the evening before.

"Here you are. Towels at your leisure—I will note that the Master does prefer if guests used the darker set. I'm sure you will take a liking to the supply of facial wear and hair care. Your clothes are sitting next to the sink." Griffith paused and waited for Violet to confirm her understanding before handing her a small silver bell with the letter _M_ engraved on the body. "Simply ring and I will come fetch you for breakfast."

"Thank you. And I'm so sorry you had to see me like this, I didn't expect it…"

"Not to worry, Miss. It's not my place to judge." And he excused himself. Violet was taking a liking to him—no judgement, all the advice. Maybe she could steal him for herself.

 _Ring, ring!_ It felt awkward at first, but Violet found it to be fun—calling her own servant. It didn't take long and her journey continued through the vast flat, following the scent of breakfast into a long dining room that had dark hardwood flooring and twenty-person table in the middle. There was pre-prepared silverware at every chair and a bouquet of white flowers decorated in the middle of the setting. To her right was a glass cabinet with glass cups of all sorts and sizes with a closed chest of alcohol underneath. The paintings on the walls were simplistic sumi paintings of a bird and flowers. For every room, she was in awe.

She sat on the very end of the table that faced the rest of the room and gave her the best view, making herself mildly comfortable while a pot of earl grey tea, a classic British breakfast plate, a pastry plate, and condiments made their way to the table.

"This smells divine, Griffith! I appreciate it, you didn't have to do this for me. Really. I already owe so much." And she did.

"Not to worry, Miss. It is but my duty to make sure all guests in my care deserve the utmost quality and service, regardless of status or rank. This does not exclude you." The servant smiled as he brought a handkerchief unfolded and onto Violet's lap. He was too good. It wasn't long before he excused himself from the room and returned to his daily duties while Violet spared no extra moment in getting into the meal. _The bread._ Ah, homemade. She squealed out of excitement, spreading butter onto her slice and putting the egg on top. It was almost as if she had nowhere to go. The extra time was a savior in belly and mind.

"Griffith does make a mean breakfast." The Irish drawl echoed down the dining room followed by clicks of shoes—James, suit-clad and sharp as ever, walked into the dining room and joined her in the seat to her right where he begun making himself a cup of tea. She understood—it was his way of poking at her for not waiting. Yes, the breakfast was good, _back off._ She neglected saying that aloud, cleared her mouth, and gave a slight frown.

"I didn't know if you were eating." She felt bad. Regardless of who he was, she still felt bad for not waiting—an inner thought almost screamed at her to prepare for punishment. But she didn't need to worry about that anymore (right?). "I'm sorry." Violet continued eating. All James heard after was that she had work between each bite she made between the beans, sausage, and tomato.

" _Hmm,"_ James looked over at the girl, noticing her shining face and change of clothes—back to the long-sleeves and jeans. "I'm aware. No rush. It's only down the street and I have equipment you can use." The clinks and shuffles of food in the late-morning ceased. It made the consultant's eyebrow raise in mild interest—she was skeptical. And had a right to be.

"Equipment I can _use?_ I was told Moran brought _**my**_ equipment from my flat."

"Oh, were you? Must've been a mistake. _Well,_ you can keep this equipment. Think of it as an upgrade." He reached over for a pinch of sugar to mix into his cup – it was all he needed for his tea. A quick glance up met her continued skepticism. James sighed, leaning back in his chair and propping one leg well over the other. " _Yes,_ I assure you there will be no tampering. I understand your suspicions, but _please,_ give me some credit." He definitely needed to get some kinks out of this one.

There was a moment of real silence between them for the first time that morning. It wasn't uncomfortable like the previous moments like yesterday; the silence was more of a calm before the storm, one where Violet enjoyed the rest of her food and James appeared to be soothed by the hot drink in his hands. She almost wondered if it were real. She would've answered that it wasn't, because the voice next to her came back into focus. It was too short to be real, and it was in the company of a darkness she wasn't sure she'd want to discover.

"Have you thought about it? Payment? You. Owe. Me _. Dear.~~"_ James knew knowingly well that Violet White didn't have even a moment of time to think about her way of payment—dreams enveloped her over the night and food brought her into the waking life, not any thought of how she was going to give back what she owed him. It'd bring him right where he wanted her—in his move set where he could place her right where he wanted to on the board. It'd be his pick.

He watched her as her eyes widened, as if headlights were shone right at her and ready to run her over. Her gears were running, steaming into overdrive, pacing at a reply that she thought would satisfy him. It pleased him to think that she'd take the effort to please him with her words, but all the same irked him with the lack of confidence she had for her own thoughts. Time ticked by as she continued to think, sipping at her tea with awkward _sssiiiiiiiiippppps_ and pauses. It was a better day, James decided to wait. Let the pressure sink into her skin, pressure her til she cracks.

"—I-I don't know." Violet let out a defeated sigh, looking down at her finished plate and back up at the stolid man glancing in her direction. "I'm sorry." She didn't know what else to say, only to give him an apology for the lack of effort on her part. He had quality service, it was his right to expect quality cooperation. Though, her observant part that lay dormant in the back of her mind yelled the opposite—that he expected her to give in and announce defeat through the unknown. Unfortunately, she ignored it, and remained vulnerable to further manipulation and play.

"They say if you can't replay through money, repay through service." She stared at him, giving no response. He shifted. James placed his tea cup to the side and leaned forward in the chair to minimize the gap between them. "Take today's work for example. You're going into the hotel to find a woman recovered from a water tank after workers found her body when repairing the water supply this morning." His finger shot up to stop her from the impending question that was coming from her lips. "One of my clients has been.. _sentimental_ in his line of work and had a destructive 'episode.' You handle photographic evidence and reports, correct? Connect the dots, Viola."

Violet knew where he was going. It was disgusting and flat out _wrong—illegal, it'd ruin the Yard's reputation_ and _put her in bars for something else._ "James." She paused, hesitant to correct herself. Should she? Jim didn't seem too nice on her lips. It was the first time she was referring to him by name, the first time she was verbally acknowledging him directly—it felt odd. _No,_ it felt wrong. As if she were betraying all she believed in by being in his flat, speaking to him on a first name basis, and possibly considering working for the damn man. "I can't **tamper** _evidence._ Altering photos and reports to favor a client of **yours** that _should_ be going in for murder? I won't commit a crime like that! It'll j-just—… It'll just mess up my life more than it already is!"

"Because _murder_ isn't already on your list, goodie two-shoes. _**Please,**_ honey, if I'm not going to drop you like it's hot and just—Oh, _I don't knoooww,_ give an anonymous tip to the police that you were a naughty girl, you should reconsider." His eyes turned dark, dark that meant he'd rip her to shreds at the snap of a finger. She felt a shiver crawl down her spine, one that urged her to just give in. She was already on the line between life and death. -Maybe she should just tell Sherlock. It'd get her out of her issue with Brandon and avoid this whole evidence scandal all together. He knew her gears were rolling, for that sharp Irish voice pierced the room once more. "I _own. You._ I can tear you apart, eat you up and spit you back out. You could try and crawl to your _friends,_ but I still reign this kingdom. I'm the king of this chess game—Now.. put those running gears into a _good_ move."

 _No._ It was wrong—morally and legally. To turn her back not only on Lestrade, but Sherlock, John, the whole department—what good would it bring her? It was already bringing her into a hole, she didn't want to start digging herself a trench. Her eyes slid away from the consultant and down to the half-full tea cup in her hands. He was right. _He owned her._ Even if she were to come clean this late in the game, he'd still be able to pull her strings and be a nuisance in the equation. If she were go with what he wished, though, she'd pay him off, get away with Brandon, live her own life, and keep her job—all that could ruin it was if she were to mess up. She was a perfectionist, messing up wasn't an _option._ Imagining the benefits from this decision felt pleasing. It felt freeing. _Damn. Here we go again._

"Fine."

"Fine, _what?"_

"I'll—I'll do it."

A small smirk curled at James's features, reflecting the pleasing feeling he had to her response. She was easy to wrap around his finger—those yearning for approval and urge to avoid conflict habits of hers were coming in his favor. Perhaps. This first case would be a test for her—a simple murder that could be easily altered if she knew what she was doing and would determine if the job was hers. James knew her type—perfectionist, horrible self-esteem that would destroy her at any mess up, keeps a low profile in general. He was confident she'd do a beautiful job with convincing photographs and report write-ups. _Mmmh,_ it made him warm inside at the thought of messing with the police so intimately.

"One question. I only handle photographic evidence and related reports that contribute to that. What about forensics? When they do an autopsy and their report, wouldn't it conflict with whatever I do?"

 _Smart one._ "Not to worry about that, flower mine. I'll be pulling the strings for that part to. Just stick to your job and mind no business to whatever else needs to be done. Simply do your part and leave the rest to the rest of the team."

 _What am I getting into?_ Violet sighed and mouthed a thank you at Griffith who was collecting all the plates and left-overs to clear the table. She had to think about this one hard and fill all possible holes for mistake, _especially_ with a consulting _fucking_ detective on some of these cases. The time—it was time to go. Violet didn't say anything to James, just gave him a nod to which he understood—she rose from her chair and begun her journey to the front door.

"A pleasure working with you, dear. Now go show me the intellectual you can be." Was the last she heard. _Prick._

* * *

The Cumberland Hotel was an old hotel, known for the small and dated rooms with a friendly, professional team of workers managing the establishment. _Okay_ , it wasn't _super_ fancy—but it was fancy enough for a four-start hotel at eighty-pounds a night, with the luxury of looking over at Hyde Park and the city lights. Tourists and visitors for business or work gravitated toward the hotel for luxuries like booze or events. The only reason Violet admired the hotel was the architecture of the building and how dated it was on the outside. The lobby was predominantly glass, colored lights, and white tile for a chic modern look; her short flat-heeled boots clicked along the tile as she roamed toward the elevator, shining her ID to personnel whom attempted to bar her from going any further due to the incident on the top floor.

The elevator's doors slid open to reveal the hotel's sixth floor carpet and signs directing which numbered rooms were which direction. There was no need to take the wrong turn. The first step Violet took into the hallway was almost turned away by a few officers before they recognized her face and let her through. It was probably her bright crimson scarf she wore around her neck, a contrast to her usual greys, blacks, and blues.

"Scenes up on the roof. They're ready for you." The officer walking with her down the hall led her to the staircase as ordered.

The breeze hit her with a cold touch as she walked onto the roof, taking in the city's horizon and the clouds above; if she didn't know there was a murder scene she'd be walking up to, she'd have thought it to be a beautiful view. Rooftops always had that vibe for Violet—beautiful and filled with romantic views all around, breeze enveloping one's body, silence for reflection and thought… but it always seemed to be the veil covering the truth—rooftops really always involved death in some sort, whether it be someone's best friend falling off the edge to embrace death's eternal form, someone ending their life after too much self-reflection and thought, or someone being killed by the view's distraction to the killer walking up on them. Rooftops just have that vibe. And it made Violet bittersweet about it.

"Well, that was faster than I thought it'd be, White." Salt and pepper hair met her halfway on her approach to the forensics team crowded around the water tanks. Lestrade's improved mood had a relaxing effect on Violet, if only a little.

"Well, you know. I was at a friend's place this morning, got a quick lift. –So, have they ID'd the body?"

"Elisa Lam, born April 1991. Canadian student that came to London at the beginning of the month for her acting abroad program. Reported missing a week ago, found by the maintenance workers of the hotel when looking into problems with the water supply." The two approached the water tanks standing tall on the rooftop, ducking under the yellow crime tape into the realm of death itself. The fire crew cut the 1,000-gallon water tank to view and remove the body—the opening of the tank was too small.

"Seems they found the problem." Violet set down her camera bag and tripod, slowly unbuckling the camera bag to investigate just what it was that James Moriarty had in mind for new equipment. Thank god, the sun was peaking from behind the clouds and they were outside—meant she didn't need to make timed exposures. Upon opening the camera bag, she couldn't help but let out a smile. _He knew what she liked._ It was wrong of her to feel it, but she felt warm and fuzzy on the inside, her chest welling up at the appreciation to detail he took—no one spent a lot of money on her, except for John and Sherlock, but _not this much._ Everything was there, brand new—a Canon EOS 5D Mark IV DSLR Camera with its complementary normal lens, wide-angle lens, and close-up lens; filters, ISO200 Color Film, 18% gray card, _everything she could need._

Maybe giving into the devil for a deal was a good idea, after all. – _No, Vie. Don't say that, it's wrong and you know it. He's only trying to lure you in._ Violet shook her head, fighting with the thoughts whirling through her mind. She'd have to struggle over it later, because she had a job to do. – _Yeah, one that involved_ _ **altering evidence.**_

" _Shut up."_

" 'xcuse me?" Even with her low whisper, Lestrade noticed her saying something. Damn.

"Nothing. I'm ready to go."

She picked up the camera body and attached the lens, fiddled with the settings, and was ready to work. Lestrade noticed her different camera, but it was clear that he didn't notice it to be _new_ —she always switched out her cameras after a couple of months for work to try out different models stashed in her flat, he probably thought today was the day for the switch.

It was time for the scene. She was the photographer, her job to capture the scene to insure photos could be used in the case to ultimately bring justice in the court. She just took the photos. She was the photographer. Well, that's how it was _supposed_ to be.

 _Click… Click, click._ Naked. Clothes floating in the water alongside her, coated in particulate— _correction,_ loess. Watch, room key, both next to her body with a paper clip that she set to get a size difference. _Click._ Most of the evidence was gone—decomposed for at least five or six days. Her body was bloated with stains of green growing behind her knees, elbows, and between her fingers. _Click._ Skin separation to her abdomen suggested she was cut—with what? She put on a glove to get a better angle of the cut by shifting the body. Could be the tank, could be a murder weapon.

"Is Sherlock coming onto this case?"

"Not on this one, no. 'e think we got this one in the bag, surveillance is being processed and autopsy should give us enough clues. Your photos will be a solid help, too—can't get away with these elements. Sherlock would dry out on this roof if he came." A chuckle escaped the DI's mouth which Violet mimicked to keep the tension down. It was her turn to continue taking different shots for the case.

Her movements stopped once she was left alone to do her work, trigger finger hovering above the button, eyes looming down at the pasty wrinkled body plastered on the ground. Falsifying this to alter the fate of the case—easy enough for her technically, but doubt continued to creep into her mind. To think of this girl's parents, her _family,_ and loved ones—they deserve the justice. Violet needed to help them gain closure, needed to be _loyal_ to her contribution in the justice system. Her finger slid to the photo preview button, revealing her photos on screen of accurate representations she'd seen. Following the book.

But if she followed the book, she'd be served justice at the hand of Jim Moriarty—left to the courts with _her_ declaring guilt or innocence. With _Lestrade_ presenting evidence against her, with the dead body of Brandon shown to the world on the screen, with a loss of reputation and chance at a life. Her stomach clenched and she couldn't help but let out a dry retch, moving as if to vomit. It was disgusting to think she'd even have this decision to make. Dark brown eyes shook at the sight of the camera's photo preview, index hovering over the button.

 _Delete… Delete. All Are you Sure?_ _ **Yes.**_

She was making her next move on the chess board, and that meant falsifying the photos for the benefit of the client on their hands and knees to the Consulting Criminal.

 _Click, click._ She was the photographer, capturing the scene to insure _the murderer gets away,_ to ultimately alter and influence fates in the court. She wasn't just taking the photos. She was the creator—she was _making photos,_ _ **not taking them.**_ This was _not_ how it was supposed to be. But here she was.

 _Click._ Blister packs and loose pills of drugs found among the body's belongings, along with Seroquel and ibuprofen. Seroquel—she knew those were psychotic drugs used for schizophrenics and those with bipolar tendencies and disorders. It could work to her advantage, lead the direction of the case for the 'others' _he_ spoke about. No evidence of physical trauma, no evidence of sexual assault. Cut along her abdomen could be from the water tank's sharp edges, where she bled out. Hotel guests complained about black water with an unusual smell—possibility of old blood contamination: high. She could make this work.

The scene was left for the coroners to take over. She stood up from her squatting position and returned to her camera bag, packing up. Reminding herself that it was like any other day at work was crucial for her stability. Violet thanked the team members for the case for being patient with her documentation, apologized for her pace, and made to head out of the hotel.

"Hey, White." It was Lestrade, walking up to catch up with her and follow to the roof's exit. "How're you doing lately? Keeping up with Brandon all right? John told me."

She didn't know what to say and continued walking, approaching the roof's exit. It took all in her power to refuse the urge to speed up and run away from that question. _Play it cool, you got this._ Violet let out a small, nervous smile and gave a loose shrug. It'd give her time to think—what did James say? Did Brandon already leave, technically? Or did he not leave officially and just disappeared to _get ready_ to leave? Why was in the States again—wait, to fuck some rich girl, that's right. She couldn't forget that, but the details were fuzzy. _No more details, dear._ She could practically feel his words on her face. There was no time to think through, so she said what she knew.

"Well, uh… Erm, I've been—better." She paused for effect. "Brandon sort of… he left."

" _What? Did he now?"_

"Yeah, he left to the States, back to Illinois. More money and I think he was sleeping with some rich supervisor. He didn't say much. Pretty much said I was useless and worn out, so up and left." Violet gave a sad smile, refusing to blink as she stared at her DI—if she blinked, there was no doubt tears would begin shedding and the nerves would burst through the flood gates. Just like James's client, she'd get sentimental and slip up. No room for that with her life on the line.

Lestrade returned the stare which stretched into a flat-out grin. Even with his co-workers, he was always physically affectionate to those he cared about, and that included Violet White. His natural need to protect people when they're within reach—that was the embodiment of Greg Lestrade. The news of Violet becoming free from any injustice that Brandon brought on her was booming for him. The man wrapped an arm around her for a side-hug, nudging her arm with the other hand.

"That's great, real great!" He was more excited about it than Violet appeared—how could she blame him? He didn't know the details, only knew that a person he cared about was given a blessing. She went along with it and playfully pushed him away, allowing a smile to appear onto her lips, one that was more genuine.

"I mean, I'm sorry that he left you like that, Violet, but… But you're out of that life and able to go for yourself. – Let's take you out for a pint or two, eh?"

Violet kept the smile on her face as she came to a stop at the beginning of the staircase down into the hotel. The fact they were continuing to talk about Brandon, that they were around other police, and that Lestrade was so invested in celebrating a seemingly innocent exit of the dictator made her sick—it made the rattles of nerves shake from her shoulders down to the pits of her stomach. She knew. She knew that she was outright lying to him, the man who she saw as a part of her makeshift family—she knew she was on her own path to becoming something, well, _different._ Whether it was good or not, well, she wasn't really sure. Her mind said no, but her heart said maybe—her heart told her she'd get stronger from this while her mind said it was the _wrong way to do things._ Inside thrashed with a storm while the outside kept calm and nodded.

"Sure, we have some catching up to do. After I finish up this report. Sound good?"

"Yeah. Autopsy should be done by this evening, giving you enough time to do your part for the supplement and all that." Lestrade's look of approval made her swell inside—it felt wrong. All of it. "You did good, White. How's The Queen's Head at King's Cross, say—at nine sound?"

"Perfect."

* * *

… _Lam had long known been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, theorizing a possible psychotic episode before her death. Looking at the body, signs of green discoloration can be observed behind the victim's knees, elbows, and between fingers and toes. Skin separation to her abdomen suggests she harmed herself during her episode. … From details in photos 03-0932D, figures one and four, it can be concluded her death to be an accidental drowning… Blister packs, loose pills (refer to toxicology report for identification results), Seroquel, and ibuprofen along with her other belongings are detailed in 03-0932B. Seroquel, a drug used for those with bi-polar disorders give evidence to her known diagnosis. Inquiry received information that the victim was inconsistent in taking her medication… In conclusion, via initial scene observations, photo documentation, and known information of the victim, the death is deemed accidental. Refer to coroner's autopsy for further details._

The blinking of the cursor at the end of the computer screen's document application seemed like it was striking Violet in the face with every reappearance onto the screen—as if daring her to revise, to go back to what the victim deserved: justice. Her sweaty palms held her face up above the desk, allowing her to just stare at the bright light that made the screen. She took the photos and followed up with the supplement report and figures. She did what she was told, but it felt wrong. She could easily go to—

 _Bzzzzz!_

 _The rest of the logistics in the case will be taken care of. You're done today. – JM x_

 _I'll keep in touch. – JM x_

The unknown number banner appeared on her phone with the following texts. A wave of mixed emotions crashed against her walls, kicked against her head, and put her at a standstill. Her she was, Violet White, getting a text from one of her friend's enemies, and replying. She didn't know what to think of it. It was a war in her mind, and she was on the losing side. Her smooth thumb slid of the screen and hovered over the keyboard, hesitating a response—how does one reply to a notorious killer wanted by… oh, _every government around?_

"Maybe I shouldn't even reply…" Violet looked up from her screen to her computer, back to the blinking cursor sitting at the end of the report. She may as well. _Submit._ Her gaze switched to the mobile. The mobile met its fate with the inside pocket of her shoulder bag, bound to stay with the point and shoot camera without a reply. It was too much for the day—no, scratch that, the week. Her issue, _him, this,_ all of it.

She shot out of her seat. Hurried feet shuffled across the department's halls to the nearest bathroom and closest stall where the body immediately shot forward into the toilet bowl to release the sickness that had been stewing for over an hour. It was foul, disgusting, repulsive—everything that shot up, the food, the stomach acid that covered it, and the humiliation that damaged her teeth and gums. Violet let out another round, throwing up all of today's disgusting elements. Her nose scrunched at the putrid smell lingering, reacting by flushing the contents away and filling the stall with a fresh soap smell from the cleaner stuck to the top of the bowl. It was only a layer to hide the disgusting odor for a while—just like what her life was becoming. The praise and ability to live another day in her way only hid the things she was going to have to do to get there.

Everything she was doing was wrong. She felt dirty, a cheat, and someone was going to be getting away with doing it in front of the greatest Consulting Detective the world's ever seen. _How_ she was going to do that was doable enough for her, but for _how long_ was something that worried her. In every show or novel she read, they always got caught—the nasty ones always got caught, and that was the road she was going down. The anxiety built up through her legs, numbing them to the ground. She stayed leaned over the toilet bowl, staring into the water below.

She was the one who got herself into this. She was fucked—the man owned her. He said it before, _he could tear her apart._ He was the master of this game and she was merely a pawn that had to pay off her debts by doing his dirty work. While it was the hard way, she learned he didn't like to get his hands dirty. He worked from the background, from the comfort of his twenty-five-million-pound flat with his expensive tea and silver cups. It irked her, but she could do nothing about it.

He was an enigma, a conductor, a mastermind that had the power to do whatever he thought, leaning away from the toilet and shifting to lean against the bottom part of the stall door. If she got up now, her anxiety would only spike up and force her to up-heave her sickness another time. Sure, he owned her, but he _was_ helping her—it'd only make sense she help him in return. She was getting away with a crime just like she was helping his client do the same.

Not only that – he had a dominative personality about him, and perhaps he could rub some off onto her. If she was going to be able to live her own life, she may as well stop getting pushed around. She wanted to be content with her life, not troubled. This was too much. There was doubt in every element, a fight in every battle field she was in.

But he owned her with her debts, that was true, and it was up to her to preserve through it even with the nastiest of jobs that could come her way.

She'll only get stronger from this.

And maybe even be able to live a life out of someone else's shadow.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Apologies, school got the better of me… _Annnd_ cue end of Act One, bring it to a close. She struggling, hardcore. We enter the beginning of Act Two next chapter, and it'll bring a lot of tension, development, and drama. As always, I adore hearing from you, so please, share your thoughts!

Thank you, as always.

 **Chapter 6** – _Elegy_

"If you want to become stronger and can stand out of anyone's shadow, your old self needs to _die._ Time to get out of the dark and shine, Viola."


End file.
